THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs,  Ben  B.  Linclsey 


XJ 


THE    RECORD    OF 
NICHOLAS    FREYDON 


THE   RECORD  OF 

NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DOHAN  COMPANY 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 
Edinburgh  :  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 


?* 


EDITOR'S  PREFATORY  NOTE 

It  would  ill  become  any  writer  to  adopt  an  apologetic 
tone  in  introducing  the  work  of  another  pen  than  his  own, 
and  indeed  I  have  no  thought  of  apologia  where  Nicholas 
Freydon's  writing  is  concerned.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
out  of  respect  for  my  friend's  quality  as  a  writer  that  I 
am  moved  to  a  word  of  explanation  here.  It  is  this  : 
there  are  circumstances,  sufficiently  indicated  I  think 
in  the  text  of  the  book  and  my  own  footnote  thereto, 
which  tended  to  prevent  my  performance  of  those  offices 
for  my  friend's  work  which  are  usually  expected  of  one 
who  is  said  to  edit.  It  would  be  more  fitting,  I  suppose, 
if  a  phrase  were  borrowed  from  the  theatrical  world,  and 
this  record  of  a  man's  life  were  said  to  be  *  presented,' 
rather  than  4  edited,'  by  me.  I  am  advised  to  accept  the 
editorial  title  in  this  connection,  but  it  is  the  truth  that 
the  book  has  not  been  edited  at  all,  in  the  ordinary 
acceptance  of  the  term.  A  few  purely  verbal  emendations 
have  been  made  in  it,  but  Nicholas  Freydon's  last  piece 
of  writing  has  never  been  revised,  nor  even  arranged  in 
deference  to  accepted  canons  of  book-making.  It  is 
given  here  as  it  left  the  author's  pen,  designed,  not  for  your 
eye  or  mine,  but  for  that  of  its  writer,  to  be  weighed  and 
considered  by  him.  But  that  weighing  and  consideration 
it  has  not  received. 

So  much  I  feel  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  say,  as  the 

T 
E     .A.  S 


vi  EDITOR'S  PREFATORY  NOTE 

avowed  sponsor  for  the  book,  in  order  that  praise  and 
blame  may  be  rightly  apportioned.  Touching  the  in- 
herent value  of  this  document,  nothing  whatever  is  due 
to  me.  Any  criticism  of  its  arrangement,  or  lack  of 
arrangement,  to  be  just,  should  be  levelled  at  myself 
alone. 


CONTENTS 


FACE 

INTRODUCTORY      .......  1 


CHILDHOOD ENGLAND              .....  4 

BOYHOOD AUSTRALIA               .....  32 

YOUTH — AUSTRALIA        ......  66 

MANHOOD ENGLAND  :     FIRST    PERIOD       .             .             .  204 

MANHOOD ENGLAND  :    SECOND  PERIOD                .             .  290 

THE    LAST   STAGE               ......  824 

editor's  note  ...                    ...  372 


Ml 


THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


INTRODUCTORY 

Back  there  in  London — how  many  leagues  and  aeons 
distant ! — I  threw  down  my  pen  and  fled  here  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth,  in  pursuit  of  rest  and  self-comprehending 
peace  of  mind.  Here  I  now  take  up  the  pen  again  and 
return  in  thought  to  London  :  that  vast  cockpit ;  still  in 
pursuit  of  rest  and  self-comprehending  peace  of  mind. 

That  seems  wasteful  and  not  very  hopeful.  But,  to 
be  honest — and  if  this  final  piece  of  pen-work  be  not 
honest  to  its  core,  it  certainly  will  prove  the  very  acme  of 
futility — I  must  add  the  expression  of  opinion  that  most 
of  the  important  actions  of  my  life  till  now  have  had  the 
self-same  goal  in  view  :  peace  of  mind.  The  surprising 
thing  is  that,  right  up  to  this  present,  every  one  of  my 
efforts  has  been  backed  by  a  substantial  if  varying 
amount  of  solid  conviction  ;  of  belief  that  that  par- 
ticular action  would  bring  the  long-sought  reward.  I 
suppose  I  thought  this  in  coming  here,  in  fleeing  from 
London.     Nay,  I  know  I  did. 

The  latest,  and  I  suppose  the  last,  illusion  bids  me 
believe  that  if,  using  the  literary  habit  of  a  lifetime,  I  can 
set  down  in  ordered  sequence  the  salient  facts  and  events 
of  that  restless,  struggling  pilgrimage  I  call  my  life,  there 
is  a  likelihood  that,  seeing  the  entire  fabric  in  one  piece,  I 
may  be  able  truly  to  understand  it,  and,  understanding  it, 
to  rest  content  before  it  ends.  The  ironical  habit  makes 
me  call  it  an  illusion.  In  strict  truth  I  listen  to  the  call 
with  some  confidence ;   not,  to  be  sure,  with  the  flaming 

A 


2     THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

ardour  which  in  bygone  years  has  set  me  leaping  into 
action  in  answer  to  such  a  call ;  yet  with  real  hope. 

It  is  none  so  easy  a  task,  this  exact  charting  out  of  so 
complex  a  matter  as  a  man's  life.  And  it  may  be  that 
long  practice  of  the  writer's  art  but  serves  to  heighten 
its  difficulties.  For  example,  since  writing  the  sentence 
ending  on  that  word  *  hope,'  I  have  covered  two  whole 
pages  with  writing  which  has  now  been  converted  into 
ashes  among  the  logs  upon  my  hearth.  For  the  covering 
of  those  pages  two  volumes  had  been  fingered  and  referred 
to,  if  you  please,  and  my  faulty  memory  drawn  upon  for 
yet  a  third  quotation.  So  much  for  the  habit  of  literary 
allusiveness,  engrained  into  one  by  years  of  book-making, 
and  yet  more  surely,  I  suspect,  by  labour  for  hire  on  the 
newspaper  press. 

But,  though  I  have  detected  and  removed  these  two 
pages  of  irrelevance,  I  foresee  that  unessential  and  there- 
fore obscurantic  matter  will  creep  in.  Well,  when  I  come 
to  weigh  the  completed  record,  I  must  allow  for  that ; 
and,  meanwhile,  so  far  as  time  and  my  own  limitations 
as  selector  permit,  I  will  prune  and  clear  away  from  the 
line  of  vision  these  weeds  of  errant  fancy.  For  the  record 
must  of  all  things  be  honest  and  comprehensive ;  rather 
than  shapely,  effective,  or  literary.  To  be  sure  the  pun- 
dits would  say  that  this  is  to  misuse  and  play  with  words  ; 
to  perpetrate  a  contradiction  in  terms.  Well,  we  shall 
see.  Whatever  the  critics  might  say,  your  author  by 
profession  would  understand  me  well  enough  when  I  say  : 
'  Honest,  rather  than  literary.' 

How,  to  begin  with,  may  I  label  and  describe  my 
present  self  ?  There,  immediately,  I  am  faced  with  one 
of  the  difficulties  of  this  task.  One  can  say  of  most  men 
that  they  are  this  or  that ;  of  this  class,  order,  sect,  party, 
or  type  ;  and,  behold  them  neatly  docketed  !  But  in  all 
honesty  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  of  any  special  class,  or 
that  I  '  belong '  anywhere  in  particular.  There  is  no 
circle  in  any  community  which  is  indefeasibly  my  own  by 


INTRODUCTORY  3 

right  of  birth  and  training.  I  am  still  a  member  of  two 
London  clubs,  I  believe.  They  were  never  more  than 
hotels  for  me.  I  am  probably  what  most  folk  call  a 
gentleman ;  but  how  much  does  that  signify  in  the 
twentieth  century  ?  Many  simple  people  would  likely 
call  me  a  person  of  education,  even  of  learning,  belike, 
seeing  a  list  of  books  under  my  name.  A  schoolman  who 
examined  me  would  be  pardoned  (by  me,  at  all  events)  for 
calling  me  an  ignoramus  of  no  education  whatever.  For 
— and  this  I  never  reflected  upon  until  the  present 
moment — I  could  not  for  the  life  of  me  *  analyse '  the 
simplest  sentence,  in  the  rather  odd  scholastic  sense  of 
that  word.  Inherited  instinct  and  long  practice  make 
me  aware,  I  believe,  of  an  error  in  syntax,  when  I  chance 
upon  one.  But  I  could  only  tell  you  that  it  was  wrong, 
and  never  how  or  why.  I  know  something  of  literature, 
but  less  of  mathematics  than  I  assume  to  be  known  by 
the  modern  ten-year-old  schoolboy  ;  something  of  three 
or  four  languages,  but  nothing  of  their  grammar.  I  have 
met  and  talked  with  some  of  the  most  notable  people  of 
my  time,  but  truly  prefer  cottage  life  before  that  of  the 
greatest  houses.  And  so,  in  a  score  of  other  ways,  I  feel 
it  difficult  informingly  and  justly  to  label  myself. 

But — let  me  have  done  with  difficulties  and  definitions. 
My  task  shall  be  the  setting  forth  of  facts,  out  of  which 
definitions  must  shape  themselves.  And,  for  a  beginning, 
I  must  turn  aside  from  my  present  self,  pass  by  a  number 
of  dead  selves,  each  differing  in  a  thousand  ways  from 
every  other,  and  bring  my  mind  to  bear  for  the  moment 
upon  that  infinitely  remote  self :  the  child,  Nicholas 
Freydon.  It  may  be  that  curious  and  distant  infant  will 
help  to  explain  the  man. 


4     THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND 


The  things  I  remember  about  my  earliest  infancy  are  not 
in  the  least  romantic. 

First,  I  think,  come  two  pictures,  both  perfectly  dis- 
tinct, and  both  connected  with  domestic  servants.  The 
one  is  of  a  firelit  interior,  below  street  level :  an  immense 
kitchen,  with  shining  copper  vessels  in  it,  an  extremely  hot 
and  red  fire,  and  a  tall  screen  covered  over  with  pictures. 
An  enormously  large  woman  in  a  blue  and  white  print 
gown  sits  toasting  herself  before  the  fire  ;  and  a  less 
immense  female,  in  white  print  with  sprays  of  pink  flowers 
on  it,  is  devoting  herself  to  me.  This  last  was  Amelia ;  a 
cheerful,  comely,  buxom,  and  in  the  main  kindly  creature, 
as  I  remember  her.  In  the  kitchen  was  a  well-scrubbed 
table  of  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in  length,  and  pos- 
sessed of  as  many  legs  as  a  centipede,  some  of  which 
could  be  moved  to  support  flaps.  (To  put  a  measuring- 
tape  over  that  table  nowadays,  or  over  other  things  in 
the  kitchen,  for  that  matter,  might  bring  disappointment, 
I  suppose.)  These  legs  formed  fascinating  walls  and 
boundaries  for  a  series  of  romantic  dwelling-places,  shops, 
caves,  and  suchlike  resorts,  among  which  a  small  boy 
could  wander  at  will,  when  lucky  enough  to  be  allowed  to 
visit  this  warm  apartment  at  all.  The  whole  place  was 
pervaded  by  an  odour  indescribably  pleasing  to  my 
infantile  nostrils,  and  compact  of  suggestions  of  heat 
acting  upon  clean  print  gowns,  tea-cakes  done  to  a  turn, 
scrubbed  wood,  and  hot  soap-suds. 

But  the  full  ecstasy  of  a  visit  to  this  place  was  only 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  5 

attained  when  I  was  lifted  upon  the  vast  table  by  the 
warm  and  rosy  Amelia,  and  allowed  to  leap  therefrom 
into  her  extended  arms  ;  she  rushing  toward  me,  and 
both  of  us  emitting  cither  shrill  or  growling  noises  as  the 
psychological  moment  of  my  leap  was  reached.  At  the 
time  I  used  to  think  that  springing  from  a  trapeze,  set  in 
the  dome  of  a  great  building,  into  a  net  beneath,  must  be 
the  most  ravishing  of  all  joys  ;  but  I  incline  now  to  think 
that  my  more  homely  feat  of  leaping  into  Amelia's  warm 
arms  was,  upon  the  whole,  probably  a  pleasantcr  thing. 

This  memory  is  of  something  which  I  believe  happened 
fairly  frequently.  My  other  most  distinct  recollection  of 
what  I  imagine  to  have  been  the  same  period  in  history 
is  of  a  visit,  a  Sunday  afternoon  visit,  I  think,  paid  with 
Amelia.  I  must  have  been  of  tender  years,  because, 
though  during  parts  of  the  journey  I  travelled  on  my  own 
two  feet,  I  recollect  occasional  lapses  into  a  perambulator, 
as  it  might  be  in  the  case  of  an  elderly  or  invalid  person 
who  walks  awhile  along  a  stretch  of  level  sward,  and  then 
takes  his  ease  for  a  time  in  victoria  or  bath-chair. 

I  remember  Amelia  lifting  me  out  from  my  carriage  in 
the  doorway  of  what  I  regarded  as  a  very  delightful  small 
house,  redolent  of  strange  and  exciting  odours,  some  of 
which  I  connect  with  the  subsequent  gift  of  a  slab  of  stuff 
that  I  ate  with  gusto  as  cake.  My  mature  view  is  that  it 
was  cold  bread-pudding  of  a  peculiarly  villainous  clammi- 
ness. It  is  interesting  to  note  that  my  delight  in  this 
fearsome  dainty  was  based  upon  its  most  malevolent 
quality  :  the  chill  consistency  of  the  stuff,  which  made  it 
resemble  the  kind  of  leathery  jelly  that  I  have  seen  used 
to  moisten  the  face  of  a  rubber  stamp  withal. 

In  this  house — it  was  probably  in  a  slum,  certainly  in 
a  mean  street — one  stepped  direct  from  the  pavement 
into  a  small  kitchen,  where  an  elderly  man  sat  smoking 
a  long  clay  pipe.  A  covered  stairway  rose  mysteriously 
from  one  side  of  this  apartment  into  the  two  bedrooms 
above.     A  door  beside  the  stairway  opened    into  a  tiny 


6     THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

scullery,  from  which  light  was  pretty  thoroughly  excluded 
by  the  high,  black  wall  which  dripped  and  frowned  no 
more  than  three  feet  away  from  its  window.  I  have 
little  doubt  that  this  scullery  was  a  pestilent  place.  At 
the  time  it  appealed  to  my  romantic  sense  as  something 
rather  attractive. 

The  elderly  man  in  the  kitchen  was  Amelia's  father. 
That  in  itself  naturally  gave  him  distinction  in  my  eyes. 
But,  in  addition,  he  was  an  old  sailor,  and,  with  a  knife 
which  was  attached  to  a  white  lanyard,  he  could  carve 
delightful  boats  (thoroughly  seaworthy  in  a  wash-hand 
basin)  out  of  ordinary  sticks  of  firewood.  It  is  to  be  noted, 
by  the  way,  a  thing  I  never  thought  of  till  this  moment, 
that  these  same  sticks  and  bundles  of  firewood  have  a 
peculiarly  distinctive  smell  of  their  own.  It  is  the  smell 
of  a  certain  kind  of  grocer's  shop  whose  proprietor,  for 
some  esoteric  reason,  calls  himself  an  '  Italian  warehouse- 
man.' In  later  life  I  occasionally  visited  such  a  shop, 
between  Fleet  Street  and  the  river,  when  I  had  rooms  in 
that  locality. 

Boat-building  figured  largely  in  that  visit  to  Amelia's 
parents.  (The  girl  had  a  mother ;  large,  flaccid,  and,  on 
this  occasion,  partly  dissolved  in  tears.)  But  the  episode 
immediately  preceding  our  departure  is  what  over- 
shadowed everything  else  for  me  that  day,  and  for  several 
subsequent  nights.  Amelia  and  the  tearful  mother  took 
me  up  the  dark  little  stairway,  and  introduced  me  to 
Death.  They  showed  me  Amelia's  sister,  Jinny,  who 
died  (of  consumption,  I  believe)  on  the  day  before  our 
visit.  I  still  can  see  the  alabaster  white  face,  with  its 
pronounced  vein-markings  ;  the  straight,  thin  form,  out- 
lined beneath  a  sheet,  in  that  tiny,  low-ceiled,  airless 
garret.  What  a  picture  to  place  before  an  infant  on  a 
sunny  Sunday  afternoon  !  It  might  be  supposed  that 
I  had  asked  to  see  it,  for  I  remember  Amelia  saying,  as 
one  about  to  give  a  child  a  treat : 

'  Now,  mind,  Master  Nicholas,  you  're  to  be  a  very 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  7 

good  boy,  and  you  're  not  to  say  a  word  about  it  to 
any  one.' 

But,  no,  I  do  not  think  I  can  have  desired  the  experi- 
ence, for  to  this  day  I  cherish  a  lively  recollection  of  the 
agony  of  sick  horror  which  swam  over  me  when,  in  obedi- 
ence to  instructions  given,  I  suffered  my  lips  to  touch  the 
marble-like  face  of  the  dead  girl. 

How  strange  is  that  unquestioning  obedience  of  child- 
hood !  Recognition  of  it  might  well  give  pause  to  care- 
less instructors  of  youth.  The  kiss  meant  torture  to  me, 
in  anticipation  and  in  fact.  But  I  was  bidden,  and  never 
dreamed  of  refusing  to  obey.  No  doubt,  there  was  also 
at  work  in  me  some  dim  sort  of  infantile  delicacy.  This 
was  an  occasion  upon  which  a  gentleman  could  have  no 
choice.  .  .  . 

Ah,  well,  I  believe  Amelia  was  a  dear  good  soul,  and  I 
am  sure  I  hope  she  married  well,  and  lived  happily  ever 
after.  I  have  no  recollection  whatever  of  how  or  when  she 
drifted  out  of  my  life.  But  the  visit  to  Jinny's  death-bed, 
and  the  exciting  leaps  from  the  immeasurably  long  kitchen 
table  into  Amelia's  print-clad  arms,  are  things  which  stand 
out  rather  more  clearly  in  my  recollection  than  many  of 
the  events  of,  say,  twenty  years  later. 

II 

How  is  it  that  my  earliest  recollections  should  centre  about 
folk  no  nearer  or  dearer  to  me  than  domestic  servants  ? 
I  know  that  my  mother  died  within  three  months  of  my 
birth.  There  had  to  be,  and  was,  another  woman  in  my 
life  before  Amelia  ;  but  I  have  no  memories  of  her.  She 
was  an  aunt,  an  unmarried  sister  of  my  mother's  ;  but  I 
believe  my  father  quarrelled  with  her  before  I  began  to 
4  take  notice  '  very  much  ;   and  then  came  Amelia. 

The  large  underground  kitchen  really  was  fairly  big. 
I  had  a  look  at  it  no  more  than  a  dozen  years  ago.  The 
house,  too,  was  and  is   a  not  unpleasing  one,  situated 


8     THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

within  a  stone's  throw  of  Russell  Square,  Bloomsbury. 
Its  spaces  are  ample,  its  fittings  solidly  good,  and  its  area 
less  subterranean  than  many.  Near  by  is  a  select  livery 
stable  and  mews  of  sub-rural  aspect,  with  Virginia  creeper 
climbing  over  a  horse's  head  in  stucco.  Amelia  shared 
with  me  a  night  nursery  and  a  nursery-living  room  in 
this  house,  the  latter  overlooking  the  mews,  through  the 
curving  iron  rails  of  a  tiny  balcony.  Below  us  my  father 
occupied  a  small  bedroom  and  a  large  sitting-room,  the 
latter  being  the  '  first  floor  front.' 

At  this  time,  and  indeed  during  all  the  period  of  my  first 
English  memories — say,  eight  years — my  father  was 
engaged  in  journalistic  work.  I  know  now  that  he  had 
been  called  to  the  bar,  a  member  of  Lincoln's  Inn  ;  but 
I  do  not  know  that  he  ever  had  a  brief.  He  gave  some 
years,  I  believe,  to  coaching  and  tutoring.  I  remember 
seeing,  later  in  my  boyhood,  a  tattered  yellow  prospectus 
which  showed  that  he  once  delivered  certain  lectures  on 
such  subjects  as  '  Mediaeval  English  Poetry.'  In  my  time 
I  gather  that  my  father  called  no  man  master  or  employer, 
but  was  rather  the  slave  of  a  number  of  autocrats  in  Fleet 
Street.  '  The  office,'  as  between  Amelia  and  myself,  may 
have  meant  all  Fleet  Street.     But  my  impression  now  is 

that  it  meant  the  building  then  occupied  by  the  . 

(Here  figures  the  name  of  one  of  London's  oldest  morning 

newspapers. — Ed.)    And,  it  may  be,  the Club  ;   for 

I  have  reason  to  believe  that  my  father  did  much  of  his 
work  at  his  club.  I  have  even  talked  there  with  one 
member  at  least  who  recollected  this  fact. 

But  the  memory  of  my  father  as  he  was  in  this  early 
period  is  curiously  vague.  It  would  seem  that  he  pro- 
duced no  very  clear  impression  on  my  mind  then.  Our 
meetings  were  not  very  frequent,  I  think.  As  I  chiefly 
recall  them,  they  occurred  in  the  wide  but  rather  dark 
entrance  hall,  and  were  accompanied  by  conversation 
confined  to  Amelia  and  my  father.  At  such  times  he 
would  be  engaged  in  polishing  his  hat,  sometimes  with  a 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  9 

velvet  pad,  and  sometimes  on  his  coat-sleeve.     I  used  to 
hear  from  him  remarks  like  these  : 

4  Well,  keep  him  out  of  doors  as  much  as  possible,  so 
long  as  it  doesn't  rain.  Eh  ?  Oh,  well,  you  'd  better 
buy  another.  How  much  will  it  be  ?  I  will  send  up  word 
if  I  am  back  before  the  boy's  bed-time' 

And  then  he  might  turn  to  me,  after  putting  on  his  hat, 
and  absently  pull  one  of  my  ears,  or  stroke  my  nose  or 
forehead.  His  hands  were  very  slender,  warm,  and 
pleasantly  odorous  of  soap  and  tobacco.  4  Be  a  good 
man,'  he  would  say.  And  there  the  interview  ended. 
He  never  said  :  *  Be  a  good  child  '  ;  always  4  a  good  man  '  ; 
and  sometimes  he  would  repeat  it,  in  a  gravely  preoccupied 
way. 

Once,  and,  so  far  as  I  remember,  only  once,  we  met  him 
out-of-doors  ;  in  the  park,  it  was,  and  he  took  us  both  to 
the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  gave  us  tea  there.  (Yellow- 
ish cake  with  white  sugar  icing  over  it  has  ever  since  sug- 
gested to  me  the  pungent  smell  of  monkey-houses  and  lions' 
cages.)     The  meeting  was  purely  accidental,  I  believe. 

It  must  have  been  in  about  my  ninth  year,  I  fancy,  that 
I  began  really  to  know  something  of  my  father,  as  a  man, 
rather  than  as  a  sort  of  supernatural,  hat-polishing,  He- 
who-must-bc-obcyed.  We  had  a  small  house  of  our  own 
then,  in  Putney  ;  and  the  occasion  of  our  first  coming 
together  as  fellow-humans  was  a  shared  walk  across 
Wimbledon  Common,  and  into  Richmond  Park  by  the 
Robin  Hood  Gate.  The  period  was  the  'sixties  of  last 
century,  and  I  had  just  begun  my  attendance  each  day 
at  a  local  '  Academy  for  the  Sons  of  Gentlemen.'  To  us, 
in  the  Academy,  my  father  descended  as  from  Olympus, 
while  the  afternoon  was  yet  young,  and  carried  me  off 
before  the  envious  eyes  of  my  fellow  sufferers  and  what  I 
felt  to  be  the  grudging  gaze  of  the  usher,  who  had  already 
twice  since  dinner-time  severely  pulled  my  cars,  because  of 
some  confusion  that  existed  in  my  mind  between  Alfred  and 
his  burnt  cakes  and  Canute  and  his  wet  feet.     (As  I  under- 


10   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

stood  it,  Canute  sat  on  the  beach  upon  one  of  those  minute 
camp-stools  which  mothers  and  nurses  used  at  the  seaside 
before  the  luxurious  era  of  canopied  hammock  chairs.) 

In  my  devious  childish  fashion,  I  presently  gathered 
that  there  had  been  momentous  doings  in  London  town 
that  day,  and  that  in  the  upshot  my  father  had  terminated 
his  connection  with  the  famous  newspaper  from  which 
the  bulk  of  his  earnings  had  been  drawn  for  some  years. 
For  a  little  while  I  fancied  this  must  be  almost  as  delight- 
ful for  him  as  my  own  unexpected  escape  from  the  Academy 
that  afternoon  had  been  for  me.  But,  gradually,  my  em- 
bryo intelligence  rejected  this  theory,  and  I  became 
possessed  of  a  sense  of  grave  happenings,  almost,  it  might 
be,  of  catastrophe.  Quite  certainly,  my  father  had  never 
before  talked  to  me  as  he  did  that  summer  afternoon  in 
Richmond  Park.  His  vein  was,  for  him,  somewhat  de- 
clamatory, and  his  unusual  gestures  impressed  me  hugely. 
It  is  likely  that  at  times  he  forgot  my  presence,  or  ceased, 
at  all  events,  to  remember  that  his  companion  was  his 
child.  His  massive,  silver-headed  malacca  cane  did  great 
execution  among  the  bracken,  I  remember. 

(I  had  been  rather  pleased  for  my  school-mates  to  have 
had  an  opportunity  of  observing  this  stick,  and  had 
regretted  the  absence  of  my  father's  usual  hat,  equal  in 
refulgence  to  the  cane.  Evidently,  he  had  called  at  the 
house  and  changed  his  head-gear  before  walking  up  to 
the  Academy,  for  he  now  wore  the  soft  black  hat  which 
he  called  his  '  wideawake.') 

That  he  was  occasionally  conscious  of  me  his  monologue 
proved,  for  it  included  such  swift,  jerky  sentences  as  : 

4  Remember  that,  my  son.  Have  nothing  to  do  with 
this  accursed  trade  of  ink-spilling.  Literary  work ! 
God  save  the  mark  ! '  (I  wondered  what  particular  ink 
'  mark '  this  referred  to.)  '  The  purse-proud  wretches 
think  they  buy  your  soul  with  their  starveling  cheques. 
Ten  years'  use  of  my  brain ;  ten  years  wasted  in  slavish 
pot-boiling  for  them  ;  and  then — then,  this  !  ' 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  11 

1  This,'  I  imagine,  was  dismissal ;  accepted  resignation, 
say.  I  gathered  that  my  father  had  been  free  to  do  his 
work  where  he  chose  ;  that  he  had  used  the  newspaper 
office  only  as  a  place  in  which  to  consult  with  his  editor 
before  writing ;  and  that  now  some  new  broom  in  the 
office  was  changing  all  that ;  that  my  father  had  been 
bidden  to  attend  a  certain  desk  during  stated  hours  to 
perform  routine  work  each  day  ;  that  he  had  protested, 
refused,  and  closed  his  connection  with  the  journal,  after 
a  heated  interview  with  some  managerial  bashaw. 

In  the  light  of  all  I  now  know,  I  apprehend  that  my 
father  had  just  been  brought  into  contact  with  the  first 
stirrings  of  those  radical  changes  which  revolutionised  the 
London  world  of  literature  and  journalism  during  the 
last  three  decades  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  Board 
School  had  not  quite  arrived,  but  the  social  revolution 
was  at  hand  ;  and,  there  among  the  bracken  in  Richmond 
Park,  my  father  with  his  malacca  cane  was  defying  the 
tide — like  my  friend  of  the  camp-stool  :  Canute.  Remem- 
bered phrases  like  :    '  Underbred  little    clerk  !  ' ;    '  His 

place  is  the  counting-house,  and [the  editor]  should 

have  known  better  than  to  leave  us  at  the  mercy  of  this 
impudent  cad,'  convince  me  that  my  father's  wrath 
was  in  great  part  directed  less  against  an  individual  than 
a  social  movement  or  tendency. 

Much  that  my  father  said  that  afternoon  would  prob- 
ably have  a  ridiculous  seeming  in  this  twentieth  century. 
Compulsory  education  and  the  aesthetic  movement,  not 
to  mention  the  Labour  Party,  Tory  Democrats,  and  the 
Halfpenny  Press,  were  as  yet  undiscovered  delights  when 
my  father  talked  to  me  in  Richmond  Park.  A  young  man 
of  to-day,  reading  or  listening  to  such  words,  would  almost 
certainly  be  misled  by  them  regarding  the  character  and 
position  of  the  speaker.  My  father  was  no  scion  of  a 
noble  house,  but  the  only  son  of  a  decayed  merchant. 
His  attitude  of  mind  and  disposition,  however,  were 
naturally  somewhat  aristocratic,  I  think.     Also,  as  I  have 


12    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

said,  our  talk  was  in  the  'sixties.  He  was  sensitive,  very- 
proud,  inclined,  perhaps,  to  scornfulness,  certainly  to 
fastidiousness,  and  one  who  seldom  suffered  fools  either 
gladly  or  with  much  show  of  tolerance.  It  was  a  some- 
what unfortunate  temperament,  probably,  for  a  man 
situated  as  he  was,  possessed  of  no  private  means  and 
dependent  entirely  upon  his  earnings.  In  my  mother,  I 
believe  he  had  married  a  lady  of  somewhat  higher  social 
standing  than  his  own,  who  never  was  reconciled  to  the 
comparatively  narrow  and  straitened  circumstances  of 
her  brief  wifehood. 

'  The  people  who  have  to  do  with  newspapers  are  the 
serfs  and  the  prostitutes  of  literature.     It  was  not  always 
so,  but  I  've  felt  it  coming  for  some  time  now.     It  is  the 
growing  dominion   of   the   City,   of   commerce,   of   their 
boasted    democracy.     The    People's    Will  !     Disgusting 
rubbish  !     How  the  deuce  should  these  office-bred  huck- 
sters know  what  is  best  ?     But,  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  that 
it  is  they  who  are  becoming  the  masters.     There  is  no 
more  room  in  journalism  for  a  gentleman  ;   certainly  not 
for  literary  men  and  people  of  culture.     They  think  it 
will  pay  them  better  to  run  their  wretched  sheets  for  the 
proletariat.     We  shall  see.     Oh,  I  am  better  out  of  it,  of 
course.     I  see  that  clearly  ;  and  I  am  thankful  to  be  clear 
of  their  drudgery.'    (My  listening  mind  brightened.)    '  But 
yet — there  's  your  education  to  be  thought  of.    Expenses 
are —     And,  of  course —    H'm  ! '     (Clouds  shadowed  my 
outlook   once   more.)      '  This  pitiful  anxiety  to  cling  to 
the  safety  of  a  salary  is  humiliating — unworthy  of  one's 
manhood.     Good  heavens  !    why  was  I  born,  not  one  of 
them,  and  yet  dependent  on  the  caprices  of  such  people  ?  ' 
It  may  be  filial  partiality,  but  something  makes  me 
feel  genuinely  sorry  for  my  father,  as  I  look  back  upon 
that  outpouring  of  his  in  Richmond  Park.      And  that 
was  in  the  'sixties.     I  wonder  how  the  twentieth-century 
journalism  would  have  struck  him.     The  later  subtleties 
of  unadmitted  advertising,  the  headline,   the  skittishly 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  13 

impressionistic  descriptive  masterpieces  of  '  our  special 
representative,'  and  the  halfpenny  newspapers,  were  all 
unthought-of  boons,  then.  And  as  for  the  advancing 
democracy  of  his  prophecies,  why,  there  were  quite  real 
sumptuary  laws  of  a  sort  still  holding  sway  in  the  'sixties, 
and  well  on  into  the  'eighties,  for  that  matter  ! 

We  walked  home  from  the  Roehampton  Gate,  and  in 
some  respects  I  was  no  longer  quite  a  child  when  I  climbed 
into  bed  that  night. 

Ill 

In  my  eyes,  at  all  events,  there  was  a  kind  of  a  partner- 
ship between  my  father  and  myself  from  this  time  onward. 
Before,  there  had  been  three  groups  in  my  scheme  of 
things  :  upon  the  one  hand,  Amelia  (or  her  successor)  and 
myself,  with,  latterly,  some  of  the  people  of  the  Putney 
Academy  for  the  Sons  of  Gentlemen  ;  in  another  and 
quite  separate  compartment,  my  father ;  and,  finally, 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Gradually,  now,  I  came  to  see 
things  rather  in  this  wise  :  upon  the  one  hand,  my  father 
and  myself,  with,  perhaps,  a  few  other  folk  as  satellites  ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  rest  of  the  world. 

And  at  this  early  stage  I  began  to  regard  the  world — 
every  one  outside  our  own  small  camp — in  an  antagon- 
istic light,  as  a  hostile  force,  as  the  enemy.  Life  was  a 
battle  in  which  the  odds  were  fearfully  uneven  ;  for  it 
was  my  father  and  myself  against  the  world.  Needless 
to  say,  I  did  not  put  the  matter  to  myself  in  those  words  ; 
but  at  this  precise  period  I  am  well  assured  that  I  acquired 
this  attitude  of  mind.  It  dated  from  the  admittance  into 
partnership  with  my  father,  which  was  signalised  by  the 
walk  and  talk  among  the  bracken  in  Richmond  Park. 

I  ought  to  say  that  I  had  always  had  a  great  admiration 
for  my  father.  He  seemed  to  me  clearly  superior  in  a 
thousand  ways  to  other  men.  But  never  before  the  Rich- 
mond episode  had  there  been  personal  sympathy,  nor  yet 


14    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

any  loyal  feeling  of  fellowship,  mingled  with  this  admira- 
tion. 

I  remember  very  distinctly  the  pride  I  felt  in  my 
father's  personal  appearance.  He  was  not  a  dandy,  I 
think  ;  but  there  was  a  certain  quiet  nicety  and  delicacy 
about  his  dress  and  manner  which  impressed  me  greatly. 
The  hair  about  his  ears  and  temples  was  silvery  grey ; 
one  of  the  marks  of  his  superiority,  in  my  eyes.  He 
always  raised  his  hat  in  leaving  a  shop  in  which  a  woman 
served  ;  his  manner  of  accepting  or  tendering  an  apology 
among  strangers  was  very  grand  indeed.  In  saluting 
men  in  the  street,  he  had  a  spacious  way  of  raising  his 
malacca  stick  which,  to  this  day,  would  charm  me,  were  it 
possible  to  see  such  a  gesture  in  these  rushing  times.  The 
photograph  before  me  as  I  write  proves  that  my  father 
was  a  handsome  man,  but  it  does  not  show  the  air  of  dis- 
tinction which  I  am  assured  was  his.  And,  let  me  record 
here  the  fact  that,  whatever  might  be  thought  of  the 
wisdom  or  otherwise  of  his  views  or  actions,  I  never  once 
knew  him  to  be  guilty  of  an  act  of  vulgar  discourtesy,  nor 
of  anything  remotely  resembling  meanness. 

In  these  days  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  very  poorest 
toiler's  child  has  more  of  schooling  than  I  had,  and,  doubt- 
less, a  superior  sort  of  schooling.  I  spent  rather  less  than 
a  year  and  a  half  at  the  Putney  Academy,  and  that  was 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  my  schooling.  Before  being 
introduced  to  the  Academy,  I  was  a  fairly  keen  reader ; 
and  that  remained.  At  the  Academy  I  was  obliged  to 
write  in  a  copy-book,  and  to  commit  to  memory  sundry 
valueless  dates.  There  may  have  been  other  acquisi- 
tions (irrespective  of  ear-tweakings  and  various  cuts 
from  a  vicious  little  cane),  but  I  have  no  recollection  of 
them  ;  and,  to  this  day,  the  simplest  exercises  of  every- 
day figuring  baffle  me  the  moment  I  take  a  pencil  in  my 
hand.  If  I  cannot  arrive  at  solution  '  in  my  head '  I 
am  done,  and  many  a  minor  monetary  loss  have  I 
suffered  in  consequence. 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  15 

I  trust  I  am  justified  in  believing  that  to-day  there  are 
no  such  schools  left  in  England  as  that  Academy  for  the 
Sons  of  Gentlemen,  in  Putney.  As  a  training  establish- 
ment it  was  more  suitable,  I  think,  for  the  sons  of  parrots 
or  rabbits.  I  never  even  learned  to  handle  a  cricket  bat 
or  ball  there.  Neither,  I  think,  did  any  of  my  contempor- 
aries in  that  futile  place.  The  headmaster  and  proprietor 
was  a  harassed  and  disappointed  man,  who  exhausted 
whatever  energies  he  possessed  in  interviewing  parents 
and  keeping  up  appearances.  His  one  underpaid  usher 
was  a  young  man  of  whom  I  remember  little,  beyond  his 
habit  of  pulling  my  ears  in  class,  and  the  astoundingly 
rich  crop  of  pimples  on  his  face,  which  he  seemed  to  be 
always  cultivating  with  applications  of  cotton-wool, 
plaster,  and  nasty  stuff  from  a  flat  white  jar.  His  mind, 
I  verily  believe,  was  as  innocent  of  thought  as  a  cabbage. 
When  sent  to  play  outdoor  games  with  us,  and  instruct 
us  in  them,  he  always  reclined  on  the  grass,  or  sat  on  a 
gate,  reading  the  Family  Herald,  or  a  journal  in  whose 
title  the  word  '  Society  '  figured  ;  except  on  those  rare 
occasions  when  his  employer  came  our  way  for  a  few 
moments.  Then,  cramming  his  book  into  his  pocket, 
the  poor  pimply  chap  would  plunge  half  hysterically  into 
our  moody  ranks  (forgetful  probably  of  what  we  were 
supposed  to  be  playing)  with  muttered  cries  of :  4  Now 
then,  boys  1  Put  your  heart  into  it !  *  and  the  like.  '  Put 
your  heart  into  it !  *  indeed  !  Poor  fellow  ;  he  probably 
was  paid  something  less  than  a  farm  labourer's  wage,  and 
earned  considerably  less  than  that. 

No,  any  education  which  I  received  in  boyhood  must 
have  come  to  me  from  my  father ;  and  that  entirely 
without  any  set  form  of  instruction,  but  merely  from 
listening  to  his  talk,  and  asking  him  questions.  Also,  the 
books  I  read  were  his  property  ;  and  I  do  not  recall  any 
trash  among  them.  It  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  evade  the  '  home-work  '  set  me  by  the  usher,  and  I 
consistently  did  so.     As  a  rule,  he  was  none  the  wiser,  and 


16   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

when  he  did  detect  me,  the  results  rarely  went  beyond 
perfunctory  ear-pulling ;  a  cheap  price  for  free  evenings, 
I  thought.  The  usher  was  frankly  sick  of  us  all,  and  of 
his  employment,  too  ;  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  it,  seeing 
that  he  was  no  more  equipped  for  his  work  than  for 
administering  a  state.  He  never  had  been  trained  to 
discharge  any  function  in  life  whatever.  How  then 
could  he  be  expected  to  know  how  to  train  us  ? 

Withal,  I  somehow  did  acquire  a  little  knowledge,  and 
the  rudiments  of  some  definite  tastes  and  inclinations, 
during  this  period.  Recently,  in  London,  I  have  once  or 
twice  endeavoured  to  probe  the  minds  of  County  Council 
schoolboys  of  a  similar  age,  with  a  view  to  comparing 
the  sum  of  their  knowledge  with  my  own  in  those  Putney 
days.  And,  curious  though  it  seems,  it  does  certainly 
appear  to  me  that  the  comparison  was  never  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  modern  boy ;  though  I  am  assured  he 
must  enjoy  the  benefits  of  some  kind  of  thought-out 
educational  system.  I  certainly  did  not.  These  things 
partake  of  the  nature  of  mysteries. 

I  suppose  the  successive  servant  maids  who  chiefly 
controlled  my  early  childhood  must  have  been  more 
ignorant  than  any  member  of  their  class  in  post-Board 
School  days.  Yet  it  seems  beyond  question  clear  to  me 
that  such  beginnings  of  a  mind  as  I  possessed  at  the  age 
of  ten,  such  mental  tendencies  as  I  was  beginning  to  show, 
were  at  all  events  more  hopeful,  more  rational,  better 
worth  having,  than  those  I  have  been  able  to  discern  in 
the  twentieth-century  London  office  boy,  fresh  from  his 
palatial  County  Council  School.  I  may  be  quite  wrong, 
of  course,  but  that  is  how  it  appears  to  me — despite  all 
the  uplifting  influences  of  halfpenny  newspapers,  and 
picture  theatres,  and  the  forward  march  of  democracy. 

Then  there  is  that  notable  point,  the  question  of  speech ; 
the  vehicle  of  mental  expression  and  thought  transference. 
Between  the  ages  of  one  year  and  nine  years,  society 
for  me  was  confined  almost  exclusively  to  servant  girls. 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  17 

From  their  lips  it  was  that  I  acquired  the  faculty  of  speech. 
Yet  I  am  certain  that  the  boy  who  walked  in  Richmond 
Park  with  my  father  in  the  'sixties  spoke  in  his  dialect, 
and  not  in  that  of  Cockney  nursemaids.  Why  was  that  ? 
If  my  father  ever  corrected  my  speech  it  was  upon  very 
rare  occasions.  I  remember  them  perfectly.  They  were 
not  such  corrections  as  would  very  materially  affect  a 
lad's  accent  or  choice  of  words. 

Having  read  a  good  deal  more  than  I  had  conversed,  I 
was  mentally  familiar  with  certain  words  which  I  never 
had  happened  to  have  heard  pronounced.  One  instance 
I  recall.  (It  was  toward  the  end  of  my  Academy  period.) 
I  had  occasion  to  read  aloud  some  passage  to  my  father, 
and  it  included  the  word  '  inevitable,'  which  in  my 
innocence  I  pronounced  with  the  accent  on  the  third 
syllable.  Up  went  my  father's  eyebrows.  '  Inevitable,' 
he  mimicked,  with  playful  scorn.  And  that  was  all.  He 
offered  no  correction.  I  recall  that  I  was  covered  in 
rosy  confusion,  and,  guessing  rightly,  by  some  happy 
chance  (or  unconscious  recollection)  hit  upon  the  con- 
ventional pronunciation,  never  to  forget  it.  But,  judged 
by  any  scholastic  standard  I  ever  heard  expounded,  there 
is  no  doubt  about  it,  I  was,  and  for  that  matter  am,  a 
veritable  ignoramus. 

During  all  the  year  which  followed  the  beginning  of 
intimacy  between  us,  my  impression  is  that  my  father 
was  increasingly  worried  and  depressed.  Children  have 
a  shrewder  consciousness  of  these  things  than  many  of 
their  ciders  suppose  ;  and  I  was  well  aware  that  things 
were  not  going  well  with  my  father.  I  saw  more  of  him, 
and  missed  no  opportunities  of  obtaining  his  companion- 
ship. He,  for  his  part,  saw  a  good  deal  less  of  other 
people,  I  fancy,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  avoiding 
intercourse  with  his  contemporaries.  He  brooded  a 
great  deal  ;  and  was  very  fitful  in  his  reading,  writing, 
and  correspondence.  I  began  to  hear  upon  his  lips 
significant  if  vague  expressions  of  his  desire  to  *  Get  away 


18   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

from  all  this  ' ;   to  '  Get  out  of  this  wretched  scramble  ' ; 
to  *  Find  a  way  out  of  it  all.' 

And  then  with  bewildering  suddenness  came  the  first 
big  event  of  my  career  ;  the  event  which,  I  suppose,  was 
chiefly  responsible  also  for  its  latest  episode. 

IV 

No  doubt  one  reason  why  our  migration  to  Australia 
seemed  so  surprisingly  sudden  a  step  to  me  was  that 
the  preliminaries  were  arranged  without  my  knowledge. 
Apart  from  this,  I  believe  the  step  was  swiftly  taken. 

My  father  had  no  wife  or  family  to  consider.  I  do  not 
think  there  was  a  single  relative  left,  beside  myself,  with 
whom  he  had  maintained  intercourse  of  any  kind.  Our 
household  effects  were  all  sold  as  they  stood  in  the  house, 
to  a  singularly  urbane  and  gentlemanly  old  dealer  in  such 
things,  a  Mr.  Fennel,  whose  stock  phrase  :  '  Pray  don't 
put  yourself  about  on  my  account,  sir,  I  beg,'  seemed  to 
me  to  form  his  reply  to  every  remark  of  my  father's.  And 
thus,  momentous  though  the  hegira  might  be,  and  was,  to 
us,  I  suppose  it  did  not  call  for  any  very  serious  amount 
of  detailed  preparation,  once  my  father  had  made  his 
decision. 

Looking  back  upon  it  now,  in  the  light  of  some  know- 
ledge of  the  subject,  and  of  old  lands  and  new,  it  seems  to 
me  open  to  question  whether,  in  all  the  moving  story  of 
British  oversea  adventuring,  there  is  an  instance  of  any 
migration  more  curious  than  ours,  or  of  any  person  emi- 
grating who  was  less  suited  for  the  venture  than  my 
father.  In  the  matter  of  our  baggage  and  personal 
effects,  now,  the  one  thing  to  which  my  father  devoted 
serious  care  was  something  which  probably  would  not 
figure  at  all  in  any  official  list  of  articles  required  for  an 
emigrant's  kit :   his  books. 

His  library  consisted  of  some  three  thousand  volumes, 
the  gleanings  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  when  books  were 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  19 

neither  so  numerous  nor  so  cheap  as  they  are  to-day. 
From  these  he  set  himself  the  maddening  task  of  select- 
ing one  hundred  volumes  to  be  taken  with  us.  The  rest 
were  to  be  sold.  The  whole  of  our  preparations  are 
dominated  in  the  retrospect  for  me,  by  my  father's 
absorption  in  the  task  of  sifting  and  re-sifting  his  books. 
Acting  under  his  instructions,  I  myself  handled  each  one 
of  the  three  thousand  and  odd  volumes  a  good  many 
times.  Eventually,  we  took  six  hundred  and  seventy- 
three  volumes  with  us,  of  which  more  than  fifty  were  re- 
purchased, at  a  notable  advance,  of  course,  upon  the  price 
he  paid  for  them,  from  the  dealer  who  bought  the 
remainder. 

This  was  my  first  insight  into  the  subtleties  of  trade,  and 
I  noted  with  loyal  anger,  in  my  father's  interest,  how  con- 
temptuously the  dealer  belittled  our  books  in  buying 
them,  and  how  eloquently  he  dilated  upon  their  special 
values  in  selling  back  to  us  those  my  father  found  he 
could  not  spare.  In  every  case  these  volumes  were  rare 
and  hard  to  come  by,  greatly  in  demand,  '  the  pick  of  the 
basket,'  and  so  forth.  Well,  I  suppose  that  is  commerce. 
At  the  time  it  seemed  to  me  amply  to  justify  all  my 
father's  lofty  scorn  and  hatred  for  everything  in  any  way 
connected  with  business. 

If  only  the  book-dealer  could  have  adopted  Mr.  Fennel's 
praiseworthy  attitude,  I  thought :  '  Pray  don't  put  your- 
self about,  sir,  on  my  account,  I  beg.'  But  then,  Mr. 
Fennel,  I  make  no  doubt,  was  heading  straight  for  bank- 
ruptcy. I  have  sought  his  name  in  vain  among  Putney's 
modern  tradesfolk.  Whereas,  Mr.  Siemens,  the  gentle- 
man who  bought  our  library,  apart  from  his  various 
thriving  establishments  in  London,  now  cherishes  his 
declining  years,  I  believe,  in  a  villa  in  the  Italian  Ilivicra, 
and  a  manor  house  in  Hampshire.  Though  young,  when 
I  met  him  in  Putney,  he  evidently  had  the  root  of  the 
matter  in  him,  from  a  commercial  point  of  view,  and  was 
possibly  even  a  little  in  advance  of  his  time  in  the  matter 


20   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

of  business  ability.  He  drove  a  very  smart  horse,  I 
remember,  was  dressed  smartly,  and  had  a  smart  way  of 
saying  that  business  was  business.  Yes,  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Siemens  was  more  a  man  of  his  time  than  my  poor  father. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  May  2,  1870,  the  day  after 
my  tenth  birthday,  that  we  sailed  from  Gravesend  for 
Sydney,  in  the  full-rigged  clipper  ship  Ariadne,  of  London, 
with  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  other  emigrants  and 
eighteen  first-class  passengers.  It  was,  I  suppose,  a  part 
of  my  father's  enthusiastically  desperate  state  of  mind 
at  this  time  that  we  were  booked  as  steerage  passengers. 
We  were  to  lay  aside  finally  all  the  effete  uses  of  sophisti- 
cated life.  We  were  emigrants,  bent  upon  carving  a  home 
for  ourselves  out  of  the  virgin  wilderness.  Naturally,  we 
were  to  travel  in  the  steerage.  And,  indeed,  I  have  good 
reason  to  suppose  that  my  father's  supply  of  money  must 
have  been  pretty  low  at  the  time.  But  we  occupied  a  first- 
class  railway  carriage  on  the  journey  down  to  Gravesend  ; 
and  I  know  our  porter  received  a  bright  half-crown  for 
his  services  to  us,  for  my  father's  hands  were  occupied, 
and  the  coin  was  passed  to  me  for  bestowal. 

Long  before  the  tug  left  us,  we  sat  down  to  our  first 
meal  on  board  ;  perhaps  a  hundred  of  us  together.  A 
weary  poor  woman  with  two  babies  was  on  my  left,  and 
a  partly  intoxicated  man  of  the  coal-heaving  sort  (very 
likely  a  Cabinet  Minister  in  Australia  to-day)  on  my  father's 
right.  This  simple  soul  made  the  mistake  of  endeavour- 
ing to  establish  an  affectionate  friendship  with  my  father, 
who  was  sufficiently  resentful  of  the  man's  mere  proximity, 
and  received  his  would-be  genial  advances  with  the  most 
freezing  politeness.  But  the  event  which  precipitated  a 
crisis  was  the  coal-heaver's  removal  of  his  knife  from  his 
mouth — the  dexterity  with  which  his  kind  can  manipulate 
these  lethal  weapons,  even  Avhen  partly  intoxicated,  is 
little  less  than  miraculous — after  the  safe  discharge  there 
of  some  succulent  morsel  from  his  plate,  to  plunge  it  direct 
into  the  contents  of  the  butter-dish  before  my  father. 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  21 

Black  wrath  descended  upon  my  father's  face  as  he 
rose  from  the  table,  and  drew  me  up  beside  him.  '  In- 
sufferable !  '  he  muttered,  as  we  left  that  curious  place 
for  the  first  and  last  time.  I  see  it  now  with  its  long, 
narrow,  uncovered  tables,  stretching  between  clammy 
iron  stanchions,  and  supported  by  iron  legs  fitting  into 
sockets  in  the  deck.  It  was  lighted  by  swinging  lanterns 
which  threw  queer,  moving  shadows  in  all  directions,  and 
stank  consumedly. 

I  Are  we  hogs  that  we  should  be  given  our  swill  in  such 
a  sty  ?  '  asked  my  father,  explosively,  of  some  subordin- 
ate member  of  the  crew  whom  we  met  as  we  reached  the 
open  deck. 

I I  dunno,  matey,'  replied  this  innocent.  '  Fcelin' 
sickish,  arc  ye  ?     You  've  started  too  soon.' 

4  Yes,  I  'm  feeling  pretty  sick,'  said  my  father,  as  the 
glimmer  of  the  humorous  side  of  it  all  touched  his  mind. 
4  Look  here,  my  man,'  he  continued,  4  here  's  half  a  crown 
for  you.  I  want  to  see  the  purser  of  this  ship.  Just  show 
me  where  I  can  find  him,  like  a  good  fellow,  will  you  ?  ' 

We  found  the  purser  in  that  condition  of  harassment 
which  appears  to  belong,  like  its  uniform,  to  his  post, 
when  a  ship  is  clearing  the  land.  He  was  inclined  at 
first  to  adopt  a  pretty  short  way  with  us.  He  really 
didn't  know  what  emigrants  wanted  these  days.  Did 
they  think  a  ship's  steerage  was  a  ho-tc\  ?     And  so  forth. 

But  my  father  was  on  his  mettle  now,  and  handled  his 
man  with  considerable  skill  and  suavity.  There  was  no 
second-class  accommodation  on  the  ship.  But  in  the  end 
we  were  taken  into  the  first-class  ranks,  at  a  substantial 
reduction  from  the  full  first-class  fares,  on  the  understand- 
ing that  we  contented  ourselves  with  a  somewhat  gloomy 
little  single-berth  cabin  which  no  one  else  wanted.  Here 
a  makeshift  bed  was  presently  arranged  for  me,  and  with- 
in the  hour  we  emigrants  from  the  steerage  had  become 
first-class  passengers.  The  translation  brought  such 
obvious  and  real  relief  to  my  father  that  my  own  spirits 


22   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

rose  instantly ;  I  began  to  take  great  interest  in  our 
surroundings,  and,  from  that  moment,  entirely  forgot 
those  prophetic  internal  twinges,  those  stomachic  fore- 
bodings which,  in  the  '  other  place,'  as  politicians  say, 
had  begun  to  turn  my  thoughts  toward  the  harrowing 
tales  I  had  heard  of  sea-sickness. 

My  father,  poor  man,  was  not  so  fortunate.  He  began 
before  long  to  pay  a  heavy  price  in  bodily  affliction  for 
all  the  stress  and  excitement  of  the  past  few  days.  For  a 
full  fortnight  the  most  virulent  type  of  sea-sickness  had 
him  in  its  horrid  grip.  I  have  since  seen  many  other  folk 
in  evil  case  from  similar  causes,  but  none  so  vitally 
affected  by  the  complaint  as  my  father  was,  and  never 
one  who  bore  it  with  more  patient  courtesy  than  he  did. 
Not  in  the  cruellest  paroxysm  did  he  lose  either  his  self- 
respect,  or  his  consideration  for  me,  and  for  others.  The 
mere  mention  of  this  fell  complaint  excites  mirth  in  the 
minds  of  the  majority ;  but  rarely  can  a  man  or  woman 
be  found  whose  self-control  is  proof  against  its  attacks  ; 
and  I  take  pleasure  in  remembering  my  father's  admir- 
able demeanour  throughout  his  ordeal.  In  the  steerage 
he  had  hardly  survived  it,  I  think.  Here,  with  decent 
privacy,  no  single  complaint  passed  his  lips  ;  and  there 
was  not  a  day,  hardly  an  hour,  I  believe,  in  which  he 
ceased  to  take  thought  for  his  small  son's  comfort  and  well- 
being.  His  courtesy  was  no  skin-deep  pose  with  my 
father.  No  doubt  we  are  all  much  cleverer  and  more 
enlightened  nowadays,  but — however,  that  is  one  of  the 
lines  of  thought  which  it  is  quite  unnecessary  for  me  to 
pursue  here. 

I  was  quite  absurdly  proud  of  my  father,  I  remember, 
when,  at  length,  he  made  his  first  appearance  on  the  poop, 
leaning  on  my  shoulder,  his  own  shoulders  covered  by  the 
soft  rug  we  called  the  '  Hobson  rug,'  because,  years  before, 
a  friend  of  that  name  had  bequeathed  it  to  us,  after  a  visit 
to  the  house  near  Russell  Square.  In  all  the  time  that 
came  afterwards,  I  am  not  sure  that  my  father's  con- 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  23 

stitution  ever  fully  regained  the  tone  it  lost  during  our 
first  fortnight  aboard  the  Ariadne.  But,  if  his  health  had 
suffered  a  set-back,  his  manner  had  not ;  that  distinction 
of  bearing  in  him  which  always  impressed  me,  in  which 
I  took  such  pride,  seemed  to  me  now  more  than  ever 
marked. 

Child  though  I  was,  I  am  assured  that  this  character- 
istic of  my  father's  had  a  very  real  existence,  and  was  not  at 
all  the  creation  of  my  boyish  fancy.  From  my  very  earliest 
days  I  had  heard  it  commented  upon  by  landladies  and  ser- 
vants, and,  too,  in  remarks  casually  overheard  from  neigh- 
bours and  strangers.  Now,  among  our  fellow-passengers 
on  board  the  Ariadne,  I  heard  many  similar  comments. 

Looking  back  from  this  distance  I  find  it  somewhat 
puzzling  that  in  my  father's  personality  there  should 
have  been  combined  so  much  of  real  charm,  dignity,  and 
distinction,  with  so  marked  a  distaste  for  the  society  of 
his  fellows.  Here  was  a  man  who  seemed  able  always  to 
inspire  interest  and  admiration  when  he  did  go  among 
his  equals  (or  those  not  his  equals,  for  that  matter),  who 
yet  preferred  wherever  possible  to  avoid  every  form  of 
social  intercourse.  By  nature  he  seemed  peculiarly  fitted 
to  make  his  mark  in  society  ;  by  inclination  and  habit, 
more  especially  in  later  life,  it  would  seem  he  shunned 
society  as  the  plague  itself.  Withal,  there  was  not  the 
faintest  suggestion  of  moroseness  about  him,  and  when 
circumstances  did  lead  him  into  converse  with  others  he 
always  conveyed  an  impression  of  pleased  interest.  This 
product  of  his  exceptional  courtesy  and  considerateness 
must  have  puzzled  many  people,  taken  in  conjunction 
with  his  invariable  avoidance  of  intercourse  wherever 
that  could  be  managed  with  politeness.  Far  more  than 
any  monetary  or  more  practical  consideration,  it  was,  I 
am  certain,  this  desire  of  my  father's  to  get  away  from 
people  which  had  led  to  our  migration. 

*  People  interrupt  one  so  horribly,'  was  a  remark  he 
frequently  made  to  me. 


24   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


Folk  whose  experience  of  sea  travel  is  confined  to  the 
passengers'  quarters  on  board  modern  steamships  of  high 
tonnage  can  have  but  a  shadowy  conception  of  what  a 
three  months'  passage  round  the  Cape  means,  when  it  is 
made  in  a  1200  ton  sailing  vessel.  I  can  pretend  to  no 
technical  knowledge  of  ships  and  seafaring ;  but  it  is 
always  with  something  of  condescension  in  my  mental 
attitude  that  I  set  foot  on  board  a  steamship,  or  hear 
praise  of  one  of  the  palatial  modern  '  smoke-stacks.'  It 
was  thus  I  remember  that  the  Ariadne's  seamen  spoke  of 
steamships. 

I  suppose  room  could  almost  be  found  for  the  Ariadne 
in  the  saloons  of  some  of  the  twentieth-century  Atlantic 
greyhounds.  But  I  will  wager  that  the  whole  fleet  of 
them  could  not  show  a  tithe  of  her  grace  and  spirited 
beauty  in  a  sea-way.  And,  be  it  noted,  they  would  not 
be  so  extravagantly  far  ahead  of  the  Ariadne  even  in 
point  of  speed,  say,  between  the  Cape  and  Australia, 
when,  in  running  her  easting  down  with  a  living  gale  on 
her  quarter,  she  spurned  the  foam  from  her  streaming 
sides  to  the  tune  of  a  steady  fourteen  to  fifteen  knots  in 
an  hour ;  '  snoring  along,'  as  seamen  say,  with  all  her 
cordage  taut  as  harp-strings,  and  her  clouds  of  canvas 
soaring  heavenward  tier  on  tier,  strained  to  the  extreme 
limit  of  the  fabric's  endurance. 

From  talk  with  my  father,  I  knew  the  Ariadne  of 
mythology,  and  so  the  sight  of  the  patent  log-line  trailing 
in  the  creamy  turmoil  of  our  wake  used  always  to  suggest 
imaginings  to  me,  as  I  leaned  gazing  over  our  poop  rail, 
of  a  modern  Theseus  being  rescued  by  this  line  of  ours  from 
the  labyrinthine  caverns  of  some  submarine  Minotaur. 

Aye,  she  was  a  brave  ship,  and  these  were  brave  days 
of  continuously  stirring  interest  to  the  lad  fresh  from 
Putney  and  its  Academy  for  the  Sons  of  Gentlemen  ;  or, 
as  I  should  probably  say,  from  one  of  its  academies.     I 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  25 

do  not  recall  that  life  itself,  the  great  spectacle,  had  at 
this  period  any  interest  for  me,  as  such.  My  musings 
had  not  carried  me  so  far.  But  the  things  and  people 
about  me,  the  play  of  the  elements,  and  the  unceasing 
and  ever-varying  activities  of  the  ship's  working,  appealed 
to  me  as  his  love  to  a  lover,  filling  my  every  hour  with 
waiting  claims,  each  to  my  ardour  more  instant  and  per- 
emptory than  its  fellow. 

Rhapsodies  have  been  penned  about  the  simple  candour 
of  children,  the  unmeasured  frankness  of  boys.  These 
qualities  were  not,  I  think,  conspicuous  in  me.  At  least, 
I  recall  a  considerable  amount  of  play-acting  in  my  life 
on  board  the  Ariadne,  and,  I  think,  in  even  earlier  phases. 
As  a  boy,  it  seems  to  me,  I  had  a  very  keen  appetite  for 
affection.  I  was  somewhat  emotional  and  sentimental, 
and  always  interested  in  producing  an  impression  upon  the 
minds  of  those  about  me.  Without  reaching  the  point 
of  seeing  life  as  a  spectacle,  I  believe  my  own  small  per- 
sonality presented  a  spectacle  of  which  I  was  pretty 
generally  and  interestedly  conscious.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  drama  for  me,  in  my  own  insignificant  progress.  I 
often  watched  myself,  and  strove  to  gauge  the  impression 
I  produced  on  others,  and  to  mould  and  shape  this  to  my 
fancy.  There  may  possibly  be  something  unpleasant, 
even  unnatural  about  this,  in  so  young  a  boy.  I  do  not 
know,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  true  ;  and  so  it  is  rightly  set 
down  here. 

There  was  a  Mrs.  Armstrong  among  our  passengers,  who 
was  accompanied  by  two  daughters  ;  a  bonny,  romping 
girl  of  sixteen,  in  whom  I  felt  little  or  no  interest,  and  a 
serious  young  woman  of  two  or  thrce-and-twenty,  with 
whom  I  fell  in  love  in  an  absurdly  solemn  fashion.  Miss 
Armstrong  had  a  great  deal  of  shining  fair  hair,  a  good 
figure,  and  pleasing  dark  blue  eyes.  That  is  as  far  as 
memory  carries  me  regarding  her  appearance.  She  rather 
took  me  up,  as  she  might  have  taken  up  crewel  work, 
whatever  that  may  be,  or  district  visiting,  or  what  not. 


26    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

No  doubt  she  was  among  the  majority  in  whom  my 
father  inspired  interest.  She  talked  to  me  in  an  exemplary 
way,  and  held  up  before  me,  as  I  remember  it,  a  sort  of 
blend  of  little  Lord  Fauntleroy  and  the  dreadful  child  in 
East  Lynne,  as  an  ideal  to  strive  after. 

She  assuredly  meant  most  kindly  by  me,  but  the  influ- 
ence was  not,  perhaps,  very  wholesome  ;  or,  it  may  be, 
I  twisted  and  perverted  it  to  ill  uses.  At  least,  I  remem- 
ber devious  ways  in  which  I  sought  to  earn  her  admira- 
tion, and  other  yet  more  devious  ways  in  which  I  schemed 
to  win  petting  from  her.  I  actually  used  to  invent  small 
offences  and  weave  circumstantial  romances  about  pre- 
tended wrong-doings,  in  order  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
confessing,  with  mock  shame,  and  getting  absolution, 
along  with  caresses  and  sentimental  promises  of  help  to 
do  better  in  future.  In  retrospect  it  seems  I  was  a  some- 
what horrid  little  chap  in  this.  I  certainly  adored  Miss 
Armstrong ;  though  in  an  entirely  different  way  from 
the  manner  of  my  subsequent  passion  for  little  black- 
haired  Nelly  Fane.  The  Fane  family  consisted  of  the 
father,  mother,  one  boy,  and  two  girls  :  Nelly,  and  her 
sister  Marion,  both  charming  children,  the  first  very  dark, 
the  other  fair.  Nelly  was  a  year  older  than  I,  Marion 
two  years  younger.  The  boy,  Tom,  was  within  a  month 
or  two  of  my  own  age. 

It  might  be  that  I  was  wearying  a  little  of  the  solemn 
sentimentality  of  my  attachment  to  Miss  Armstrong ; 
possibly  the  pose  I  thought  needful  for  holding  this  young 
lady's  regard  withal  proved  exhausting  after  a  time. 
At  all  events,  I  remember  neglecting  her  shamefully  in 
equatorial  latitudes,  when  the  Ariadne  was  creeping  along 
her  zig-zag  course  through  the  Doldrums.  For  me  this 
period,  fascinating  in  scores  of  other  ways,  belongs  to 
Nelly  Fane,  with  her  long  black  curls,  biscuit-coloured 
legs  and  arms,  and  large,  melting  dark  eyes.  At  the 
time  the  thought  of  being  separated  from  this  imperi- 
ous   little    beauty   meant    for    me    an    abomination   of 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  27 

desolation  too  dreadful  to  be  contemplated.  But,  look- 
ing back  upon  the  circumstances  of  my  suit,  I  think  it 
likely  my  heart  had  never  been  captivated  but  for  jealousy, 
and  my  trick  of  seeing  myself  as  the  first  figure  in  an 
illustrated  romance. 

There  was  another  boy  on  board — I  remember  only  his 
Christian  name  :  Fred — who,  in  addition  to  being  a  year 
older  than  myself,  had  the  huge  advantage  of  being  an 
experienced  traveller.  He  was  an  Australian,  and  had 
been  on  a  visit  with  his  parents  to  the  Mother-country. 
At  a  quite  early  stage  in  our  passage,  he  won  my  cordial 
dislike  by  means  of  his  old  traveller's  airs,  and — far  more 
unforgiveable — the  fact  that  he  had  the  temerity  to  refer 
to  my  father,  in  my  hearing,  as  '  The  old  chap  who  can't 
get  his  sea-legs.'  I  fear  I  never  should  have  forgiven  him 
for  that. 

In  addition,  as  we  youngsters  played  together  about 
the  decks,  this  Fred  used  to  arrogate  to  himself  always  the 
position  of  leader  and  director.  He  knew  the  proper 
names  of  many  things  of  which  the  rest  of  us  were  ignor- 
ant, and,  where  his  knowledge  did  not  carry  him,  I  was 
assured  his  conceit  and  hardihood  did.  To  such  ears  as 
Nelly  Fane's,  for  instance,  '  Jib-boom,'  *  Fore  topmast- 
staysail,'  must  have  an  admirably  knowledgeable  note 
about  them,  I  thought,  even  if  ever  so  wrongly  used.  My 
first  attack  upon  Fred  consisted  in  convicting  him  of 
some  such  swaggering  misuse  of  a  nautical  term  to  the 
which,  as  luck  had  it,  I  had  given  careful  study  on  the 
fo'c'slc-head  during  the  previous  evening's  second  dog- 
watch, when  my  friends  among  the  crew  were  taking  their 
leisure.  He  bore  no  malice,  I  think  ;  in  any  case,  his 
self-esteem  was  a  very  hardy  growth,  and  little  liable  to 
suffer  from  any  minor  cheek. 

We  never  came  to  blows,  the  Australian  and  myself, 
wliich  was  probably  as  well  for  me,  since  I  make  no  doubt 
the  lad  could  have  trounced  me  soundly,  for  he  was  dis- 
gustingly wiry  and  long  of  limb.     That  was  how  I  saw  his 


28   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

physical  advantages.  But,  apart  from  this  matter  of 
physical  superiority,  he  was  no  match  for  me.  In  the 
subtler  qualities  of  intrigue  I  was  his  master ;  and  he, 
never  probably  having  observed  himself  as  a  hero  of 
romance,  had  to  yield  to  my  proficiency  in  the  art  of  pro- 
ducing a  desired  impression.  It  was  in  his  capacity  as 
an  old  campaigner,  a  knowing  dog,  and  a  seasoned  salt, 
that  he  had  carried  Nelly  Fane's  heart  by  storm,  and 
established  himself  an  easy  first  in  her  regard.  And  see- 
ing this  it  was,  I  believe,  which  first  weakened  my  devo- 
tion to  the  fair  Miss  Armstrong,  by  turning  my  attention 
to  Nelly  Fane. 

I  did  not  really  deserve  to  win  Nelly,  my  suit  at  first 
being  based  upon  foundations  so  unworthy.  But  the 
pursuit  of  her  stirred  me  deeply  ;  and  in  the  end — say, 
in  a  couple  of  days — I  was  her  very  humble  and  devoted 
slave.  She  really  was  an  attractive  child,  I  fancy,  in 
her  wilful,  imperious  way.  And,  Cupid,  how  I  did  adore 
her  by  the  time  I  had  driven  Master  Fred  from  the  field  ! 
Even  my  father  suffered  a  temporary  eclipse  in  my  regard 
during  the  first  white-hot  fervour  of  my  devotion  to 
Nelly.  I  lied  for  her,  in  word  and  deed  ;  I  stole  for  her 
— from  the  cabin  pantry — and  I  am  sure  I  risked  life  and 
limb  for  her  a  dozen  times,  in  my  furious  emulation  of  any 
achievement  of  Fred's,  in  my  instant  adoption  of  any 
suggestion  of  Nelly's,  however  mischievous.  And  how 
many  of  us  could  truthfully  say  as  much  of  their  enthusi- 
asm in  any  mature  love  affair  ?  How  many  grown  men 
would  deliberately  risk  life  to  win  the  passing  approval 
of  a  mistress  ? 

For  example,  I  recall  two  typical  episodes.  Neither 
had  been  remarkable,  perhaps,  for  a  boy  devoid  of  fear  or 
imagination  ;  but  I  was  one  shrewdly  influenced  by  both 
qualities.  There  was  a  roomy  cabin  under  the  Ariadne's 
starboard  counter,  which  served  the  Fane  family  as  a 
sort  of  sitting-room  or  day  nursery.  It  had  two  circular 
port-holes,  brass-rimmed,  of  fairly  generous  proportions. 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  29 

Under  the  spur  of  verbal  taunts  from  Fred,  and  passive 
challenges  from  Nelly's  dark  eyes,  I  positively  succeeded 
in  wriggling  my  entire  body  out  through  one  of  those 
port-holes,  feet  first,  until  I  hung  by  my  hands  outside, 
my  feet  almost  touching  the  water-line.  And  then  it 
seemed  I  could  not  win  my  way  back. 

Nelly,  moved  to  tears  of  real  grief  now,  was  for  seeking 
the  aid  of  grown-ups.  I  wasted  precious  breath  in 
adjuring  her  as  she  loved  me  to  keep  silence.  For  my 
part  death  seemed  imminent  and  certain.  But  I  pictured 
Fred's  grinning  commiseration  should  our  ciders  rescue 
me,  and — I  held  on.  By  slow  degrees  I  got  one  arm  and 
shoulder  back  into  the  cabin,  pausing  there  to  rest.  From 
that  moment  I  was  safe  ;  but  I  was  too  cunning  to  let 
the  fact  appear.  My  reward  began  then,  and  most 
voluptuously  I  savoured  it.  I  had  Mistress  Nelly  on  her 
biscuit-coloured  knees  to  me  before  I  finally  reached  the 
cabin  floor  on  my  hands,  my  toes  still  clinging  to  the  port- 
hole. Poor  Fred  could  not  possibly  equal  this  feat.  His 
girth  would  not  have  permitted  it. 

Again,  there  was  the  blazing  tropical  afternoon,  in 
dead  calm,  when  I  established  a  new  record  by  touching 
the  ship's  prow  under  water.  It  was  siesta  time  for 
passengers.  The  watch  on  deck  was  assembled  right  aft, 
scraping  bright-work.  Pitch  was  bubbling  in  the  deck 
scams,  and  every  one  was  drowsy,  excepting  Nelly, 
Marion,  Tom,  Fred,  and  myself.  We  were  plotting 
mischief  in  the  shadow  of  the  Ariadne's  anchors,  right  in 
the  eyes  of  the  ship.  I  forget  the  immediate  cause  of 
this  piece  of  foolhardiness,  but  I  remember  Fred's  hated 
fluency  about  l  dolphin-strikers,'  '  martingales,'  and  what 
not ;  and,  finally,  my  own  assertion  that  I  would  touch 
the  ship's  forefoot,  where  we  saw  it  gleaming  below  the 
glassy  surface  of  the  water,  and  Fred's  mocking  reply 
that  I  jolly  well  dared  do  no  such  a  thing.  Nelly's  pro- 
vocative eyes  were  in  the  background,  of  course. 

Three  several  times  I  tried  and  failed,  swinging  peril- 


30  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

ously  at  a  rope's  end  below  the  dolphin-striker.  And 
then  the  Ariadne,  with  one  of  those  unaccountable  move- 
ments which  a  ship  will  make  at  times  in  the  flattest  of 
calms,  brought  me  victory,  and  the  narrowest  escape 
from  extinction  in  one  and  the  same  moment.  I  swung 
lower  than  before,  and  the  ship  ducked  suddenly.  I  not 
only  touched  her  bows  below  the  water-line,  but  had  all 
the  breath  knocked  out  of  me  by  them,  and  was  soused 
under  water  myself,  as  thoroughly  as  a  Brighton  bathing 
woman  could  have  done  the  trick  for  me.  To  this  day 
I  remember  the  breathless,  straining  agony  of  the  ascent, 
when  my  clothes  and  myself  seemed  heavier  than  lead, 
and  the  ship's  deck  miles  above  me.  My  clothes — a 
jersey  and  flannel  knickerbockers — dried  quickly  in  the 
scorching  sun,  and  no  grown-up  ever  knew  of  the  escapade, 
I  think.     But,  the  peril  of  it,  in  a  shark-infested  sea  ! 

No  doubt  these  feats  helped  me  to  the  subjugation  of 
Nelly.  Yet,  after  all,  in  sheer  physical  prowess,  I  could 
not  really  rival  Fred,  who  stood  a  full  head  taller  than 
I  did.  But  I  had  a  deal  more  of  finesse  than  he  had, 
made  very  much  better  use  of  my  opportunities,  and  was 
a  far  more  practised  poseur.  Fred  was  well  supplied 
with  self-esteem — a  most  valuable  qualification  in  love- 
making — but  he  lacked  the  introspectively  seeing  eye. 
He  might  compel  admiration,  in  his  rude  fashion.  He 
could  never  force  a  tear  or  steal  a  sigh. 

Fred — Fred  without  a  surname,  I  wonder  what  has  been 
your  lot  in  life,  and  where  you  air  your  prosperity  to-day ! 
For,  prosperous  I  feel  certain  you  are.  And,  who  knows  ? 
Nelly  may  be  Mrs.  Fred  to-day,  for  aught  I  can  tell. 
When  all  is  said  and  done,  you  all  of  you  had  more  in 
common,  one  with  another,  and  each  with  all,  than  I  had 
with  any  of  you  ! 

And  that  reminds  me  of  a  trifle  overlooked.  During 
all  my  association  with  these  my  contemporaries  on  board 
the  Ariadne,  but  with  special  keenness  in  the  beginning, 
I  was  conscious  of  something  outside  my  own  experience, 


CHILDHOOD— ENGLAND  31 

which  they  all  shared.  At  that  time  it  was  to  me  just  a 
something  which  they  had  and  I  had  not ;  a  quality  I 
could  not  define.  Looking  back  upon  it  I  see  clearly  that 
the  thing  was  in  part  fundamental,  a  flaw  in  my  tempera- 
ment ;  and,  in  part,  the  family  sense.  They  all  knew 
what  '  home  '  meant,  in  a  way  in  which  I  knew  it  not  at 
all.  They  were  more  carelessly  genial  and  less  serious 
and  preoccupied  than  I  was.  They  all  had  mothers,  too. 
I  do  not  wish  to  say  that  they  were  necessarily  much  better 
off  than  I.  They  had  certain  qualities  which  I  lacked, 
the  product  of  experiences  I  had  never  enjoyed.  And  I 
had  various  qualities  which  they  had  not.  On  the  whole, 
perhaps,  I  was  more  mature  than  they  were  ;  and  they, 
perhaps,  were  more  happy  and  care-free — certainly  less 
self-conscious — than  I  was.  There  was  a  kind  of  Free- 
masonry of  shared  experience  among  them,  and  I  had 
never  been  initiated.  They  were  established  members  of 
a  recognised  order,  to  which  I  did  not  belong.  They  were 
members  of  families  of  a  certain  defined  status.  I  was  an 
isolated  small  boy,  with  a  father,  and  no  particular  status. 


32    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA 


It  has  often  occurred  to  me  to  wonder  why  my  recollec- 
tions of  our  arrival  and  first  days  in  Sydney  should  be 
so  blurred  and  unsatisfactorily  vague.  One  would  have 
thought  such  episodes  should  stand  out  very  clearly  in 
retrospect.  As  a  fact,  they  are  far  less  clear  to  me  than 
many  an  incident  of  my  earlier  childhood. 

What  I  do  clearly  recall  is  lying  awake  in  my  make- 
shift bunk  for  some  time  before  daylight  on  the  morning 
we  reached  Sydney,  and,  finally,  just  before  the  sun  rose, 
going  on  deck  and  sitting  on  the  teak- wood  grating  beside 
the  wheel.  There,  on  our  port  side,  was  the  coast  of 
Australia,  the  land  toward  which  we  had  been  working 
through  gale  and  calm,  storm  and  sunshine,  for  more  than 
ninety  days.  Botany  Bay,  said  the  chart.  I  thought 
of  the  grim  record  I  had  read  of  early  settlement  here. 
And  then  came  the  pilot's  cutter,  sweeping  like  a  sea-bird 
under  our  lee.  The  early  sunshine  was  bright  and  glad- 
some enough  ;  but  my  recollection  is  that  I  felt  somehow 
chilled,  and  half  frightened.  That  sandy  shore  conveyed 
no  kindly  sense  of  welcome  to  me. 

The  harbour — oh,  yes,  the  harbour  was,  and  is,  beauti- 
ful, and  I  can  remember  thrilling  with  natural  excite- 
ment as  we  opened  up  cove  after  cove,  while  the  Ariadne 
— stately  as  ever,  but  curiously  quiescent  now,  with  her 
trimly  furled  and  lifeless  sails — was  towed  slowly  to  her 
anchorage.  The  different  bays — Watson's,  Mossman's, 
Neutral,  and  the  rest — had  not  so  many  villas  then  as 
now.     Manly  was  there,  in  little ;  but  surf -bathing,  like 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  33 

some  other  less  healthful  '  notions  '  from  America,  was 
still  to  come.  From  the  North  Shore  landing-stage  one 
strolled  up  the  hill,  and,  very  speedily,  into  the  bush. 

Yes,  the  place  was  naturally  beautiful  enough  ;  but  the 
Ariadne  was  home  ;  her  every  deck  plank  was  familiar 
to  me  ;  I  knew  each  cleat  about  her  fife-rails,  every  be- 
laying-pin  along  her  sides,  every  friendly  projection  from 
her  deck  that  had  a  sheltering  lee.  The  shining  brass- 
bound,  teak-wood  buckets  ranged  along  the  break  of  her 
poop — the  crew's  lime-juice  was  served  in  one  of  these, 
and  they  all  were  painted  white  inside — I  see  them  now. 
Ay  di  mi  !  as  the  Spanish  ladies  say ;  I  am  not  so  sure 
that  any  place  was  ever  more  distinctly  home  to  me. 
Over  the  rail,  across  the  dancing  waters  of  the  harbour, 
where  the  buildings  clustered  about  Circular  Quay ;  as 
yet,  of  course,  there  could  be  nothing  homely  for  me  about 
all  that.  And,  as  to  me,  it  never  did  become  very  homely  ; 
perhaps  that  is  why  my  recollections  of  our  first  doings 
there  are  so  vague. 

How  often,  in  later  years,  my  heart  swelled  with  vague 
aspiring  yearnings  toward  what  lay  beyond,  while  my 
eyes  ranged  over  that  same  smiling  scene,  from  the 
Domain,  Lady  Macquaric's  Chair,  and  the  purlieus  of 
Circular  Quay !  (There  were  no  trams  there  then.) 
Here  one  saw  the  ships  that  carried  folk  to  and  from — 
what  ?  To  and  from  Home,  was  always  my  thought ; 
though  what  home  I  fancied  that  distant  island  in  her 
grey  northern  sea  had  for  me,  heaven  knows  !  Here  one 
rubbed  shoulders,  perchance,  with  sonic  ruddy-faced, 
■careless  fellow  in  dark  blue  clothes,  who,  but  a  short 
couple  of  months  ago,  walked  London's  streets,  and  would 
be  there  again  in  the  incredibly  brief  space  of  six  weeks 
or  so.  Dyspepsia  itself  knows  no  more  fell  and  spirit- 
racking  anguish  than  nostalgia  brings  ;  and  at  times  I 
have  fancied  the  very  air — bland,  warm,  and  kindly  seeming 
— that  circulates  about  the  famous  quay  must  be  pervaded 
and  possessed  by  germs  of  this  curious  and  deadly  malady. 

c 


34   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

At  least,  that  soft  air  is  breathed  each  day  by  many  a 
victim  to  the  disease  ;  old  and  young,  and  of  both  sexes. 

No  doubt  we  must  have  spent  some  days  in  Sydney,  my 
father  and  myself  ;  but  from  the  Ariadne,  and  the  parting 
with  Nelly  Fane  and  my  other  companions,  memory 
carries  me  direct  to  the  deck  of  a  little  intercolonial 
steamer,  bound  north  from  Sydney,  for  Brisbane  and  other 
Queensland  ports.  I  see  myself  in  jersey  and  flannel 
knickers  sitting  beside  my  father  on  the  edge  of  a  deck  sky- 
light, and  gazing  out  across  dazzlingly  sunlit  waters  to  the 
near-by  northern  coast  of  New  South  Wales.  Suddenly,  my 
father  laid  aside  the  book  which  had  been  resting  on  his 
knee,  and  raised  to  his  eyes  the  binoculars  he  used  at  sea. 

4  How  extraordinary,'  he  murmured.  And,  my  gaze 
naturally  following  his,  I  made  out  clearly  enough,  with- 
out glasses,  a  vessel  lying  high  and  dry  on  the  white  sand 
of  a  fair-sized  bay. 

My  father's  keen  interest  in  that  derelict  ship  always 
seemed  to  me  to  spring  into  being,  as  it  were,  full-grown. 
There  was  in  it  no  period  of  gradual  development.  From 
the  moment  his  eyes  first  lighted  upon  the  tapered  spars 
of  the  Livorno,  where  she  lay  basking  in  her  sandy  bed, 
his  interest  in  her  was  absorbing.  Everything  else  was 
forgotten.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  in  eager  conversation 
about  the  derelict  with  the  chief  officer  of  our  steamer.  I 
remember  the  exact  words  and  intonation  of  the  man's 
answer  to  my  father's  first  question  : 

'  Well,  I  couldn't  say  for  that,  Mr.  Freydon '  (In 
Australia  no  one  ever  forgets  your  name,  or  omits  to  use 
it  in  addressing  you),  '  but  I  can  tell  you  the  day  I  first 
saw  her.  She  was  lying  there  exactly  as  she  is  to-day. 
I  was  third  mate  of  the  Toozvoomba  then  ;  my  first  trip 
in  her,  and  that  was  seven  years  ago  come  Queen's 
Birthday.  Seen  her  every  trip  since — just  the  same.  No, 
she  never  seems  to  alter  any.  She  's  high  and  dry,  you 
see  ;  bedded  there  on  an  even  keel,  same  's  if  she  was 
afloat.     Yes,  it  is  a  wonder,  as  you  say,  Mr.   Freydon ;, 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  35 

but  it 's  a  lonely  place,  you  see  ;  nothing  nearer  than — 
what  is  it  ?  Werrina,  I  think  they  call  it ;  fifteen  mile 
away  ;  and  that 's  a  day's  march  from  anywhere,  too. 
Oh  yes,  there  might  be  an  odd  sundowner  camp  aboard 
of  her  once  in  a  month  o'  Sundays  ;  but  I  doubt  it.  She 
isn't  in  the  track  to  anywhere,  as  ye  might  say.  No,  I 
guess  it  would  only  be  bandicoots,  an'  the  like  o'  that 
you  'd  find  about  her ;  an'  birds,  maybe.  Only  thing 
I  wonder  about  her  is,  how  she  landed  there  without  ever 
losing  her  top-hamper,  and  why  nobody  's  thought  it 
worth  while  to  pick  her  bones  a  bit  cleaner.  Must  be 
good  stuff  in  her  stays  an'  that,  to  have  stood  so  long, 
with  never  a  touch  o'  the  tar-brush.' 

There  was  more  in  the  same  vein,  but  this  much  comes 
back  to  me  as  though  it  were  yesterday  that  I  heard  the 
words.  I  sec  the  mate's  hard  blue  eye,  and  crisply 
curling  beard  ;  I  see  the  upward  tilt  of  the  same  beard 
as  he  spat  over  the  rail,  and  my  father's  little  retreating 
movement  at  his  gesture.  (My  father  never  lost  his 
sensitiveness  about  such  things,  though  I  doubt  if  he  ever 
allowed  it  to  appear  to  eyes  less  familiar  with  his  every 
movement  than  my  own.)  It  seems  to  me  that  my 
father  talked  of  the  derelict — wc  did  not  know  her  name 
then,  and  spoke  of  her  simply  as  '  the  ship  ' — for  the  rest 
of  the  day,  and  for  days  afterwards  ;  and  the  key  to  his 
thoughts  was  given  in  one  of  his  earliest  remarks  : 

1  What  a  home  a  man  might  make  of  that  ship — all 
ready  to  his  hand  for  the  asking !  The  sea,  trees — there 
were  plenty  of  trees — sunshine,  solitude,  and  space.  Think 
of  the  peaccfulness  of  that  sun-washed  bay.  Nothing 
nearer  than  fifteen  miles  away,  and  that  a  mere  hamlet, 
probably.  Werrina — not  a  bad  name,  Nick — Werrina. 
Aboriginal  origin,  I  imagine.  And  all  that  for  the  mere 
taking ;  open  to  the  poorest — even  to  us.  You  liked 
the  Ariadne,  Xiek.  What  would  you  think  of  a  ship  of 
our  own  ?  ' 

Assuredly,  we  were  the  strangest  pair  of  emigrants.  .  .  . 


36    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

II 

Naturally,  my  father's  suggestion,  thrown  out  as  it 
were  in  jest,  whimsically,  fired  my  fancy  instantly. 
'  How  glorious  !  '  I  said.     '  But  can  we,  really,  father  ?  ' 

It  was  less  than  a  week  later  that  we  walked  out  of 
Werrina's  one  street  into  the  bush  to  the  westward  of 
that  township,  accompanied  by  Ted  Reilly  and  a  heavily- 
laden  pack-horse — Jerry.  Ted  was  one  of  Werrina's 
oddities,  and,  in  many  respects,  our  salvation.  The 
Werrina  storekeeper  shook  his  grizzled  head  over  Ted,  and 
vowed  there  wasn't  an  honest  day's  work  in  the  man. 

'  What 's  the  matter  with  Ted  is  he  's  got  no  Systum  ; 
never  had  since  he  was  a  babby.'  (My  thoughts  reverted 
at  once  to  a  highly  coloured  anatomical  diagram  which 
hung  in  the  cabin  of  the  Ariadne's  captain  :  the  flayed 
figure  of  a  man  whose  face  wore  the  incredibly  com- 
placent look  one  sees  on  the  waxen  features  of  tailors' 
dummies,  though  the  poor  fellow's  heart,  liver,  kidneys, 
and  other  internal  paraphernalia  were  shamelessly 
exposed  to  the  public  gaze.  The  storekeeper's  tone 
convinced  me  for  the  time  that  poor  Ted  had  been  born 
lacking  some  one  or  other  of  the  important-looking  purple 
organs  which  the  diagram  had  shown  me  as  belonging 
to  the  human  system.)  '  He  's  a  here-to-day-and-gone- 
to-morrow,  come-day-go-day-God-send-Sunday  sort  of  a 
customer,  is  Ted — my  oath  !  Wanter  Systum.  That 's 
what  I  'm  always  telling  'em  in  this  place.  It 's  wanter 
Systum  that 's  the  curse  uv  Australia  ;  an'  Ted  's  got  it 
worsen  most.  Don't  I  know  it  ?  I  gave  him  a  chanst 
here  in  my  store.  Might  ha'  made  a  Persition  frimself. 
But,  no  ;  no  Systum  at  all.  He  was  off  in  a  fortnight, 
trappin'  dingoes  in  the  bush,  or  some  such  nonsense. 
He  's  for  no  more  use  than — than  a  bumble  bee,  isn't  Ted 
Reilly  ;  nor  never  will  be.' 

Well,  he  was  of  a  good  deal  of  practical  use  to  us,  the 
storekeeper  notwithstanding ;    but  I  admit  that  there 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  37 

was  a  notable  absence  of  '  Systum '  about  the  man.  He 
was  singularly  unmethodical  and  haphazard,  even  as  his 
kind  go  in  the  remoter  parts  of  Australia.  He  made  our 
acquaintance  very  casually  by  asking  my  father  for  a 
match,  almost  before  we  had  descended  from  the  coach 
outside  the  Royal  Hotel,  Werrina.  (There  was  nothing 
royal,  or  even  comfortable,  about  this  weatherboard  and 
iron  inn,  except  its  name.)  And,  oddly  enough,  my 
father  fell  into  conversation  with  him,  and  seemed  rather 
to  take  to  the  man  forthwith. 

I  know  it  was  by  his  advice,  as  kindly  meant,  I  am  sure, 
as  it  was  shrewd,  that  my  father  said  nothing  to  any  one 
else  in  the  township  of  his  fantastic  ideas  regarding  what 
we  now  knew  to  be  the  derelict  Italian  barque,  Livorno, 
of  Genoa.  It  was  given  out  that  we  were  going  camping, 
between  Werrina  and  the  coast ;  and,  no  doubt  my  father 
was  credited  by  the  local  wiseacres  with  the  possession  of 
some  crafty  prospecting  scheme  or  another.  Most  of  the 
folk  thereabouts  had  been  always  wont  to  look  to  the  bush 
(chiefly  for  timber)  as  a  source  of  livelihood,  but  their 
attention  was  usually  turned  inland  rather  than  seaward  ; 
for  the  bulk  of  the  country  between  Werrina  and  the  sea 
is  poor  and  swampy,  or  sandy.  The  belt  of  timber  we 
had  seen  behind  our  derelict's  bay  was  not  extensive. 

It  was  Ted  who  bought  Jerry  for  us  for  the  modest 
price  of  £3,  15s. ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  serviceable 
beast  would  have  cost  my  father  £7  if  he  had  had  '  the 
haggling  of  it.'  Pack-saddle  and  tent,  with  a  number  of 
other  oddments,  had  come  with  us  from  across  the  Queens- 
land border ;  first,  by  rail,  and  thence  by  numerous 
devious  coach  routes  to  Werrina.  The  only  thing  about 
our  expedition  which  I  think  Ted  really  mistrusted  and 
disliked  was  the  fact  that  we  set  forth  on  foot.  He 
told  my  father  of  horses  he  could  buy,  if  not  for  three  a 
penny,  certainly  at  the  rate  of  two  for  a  five-pound  note. 
(Animals  no  better,  or  very  little  better,  arc  selling  for  £20 
apiece    in   the  same  country   to-day.)     But  my  father 


38    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

spoke  of  the  cost  of  saddlery  and  the  like.  He  had 
been  brought  up  in  a  land  where  horse-keeping  means 
considerable  expense,  and  the  need  for  husbanding  his 
slender  resources  was  strongly  foremost  in  his  mind  just 
now.  But  Ted  had  all  his  life  long  thought  of  horses  as 
a  natural  and  necessary  adjunct  to  man's  locomotion. 
I  have  seen  him  devote  considerable  time  and  energy  to 
the  task  of  catching  Jerry  in  order  to  ride  across  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  of  sand  to  his  favourite  wood-cutting 
spot.  To  be  poor,  that  is,  short  of  money,  was  a  natural 
and  customary  thing  enough  in  Ted's  eyes  ;  but  to  go 
ajourneying  as  a  footman  suggested  a  truly  pitiable  kind 
of  destitution,  and  did,  I  am  convinced,  throw  a  shadow 
over  what  otherwise  had  been  the  outset  of  a  jaunt 
entirely  after  his  own  heart. 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  however,  and  we  left  behind 
us  all  likelihood  of  chance  encounters  with  more  fortun- 
ately placed  and  therefore  critical  people,  bestriding 
pigskin,  Ted's  spirits  rose  again  to  their  normal  easy 
altitude,  and  mounted  beyond  that  to  the  level  of  boyish 
jollity.  Myself,  I  incline  to  think  that  walking  along  a 
bush  track,  with  a  long  stick  in  his  hand  and  a  pack-horse 
to  drive  before  him,  was  really  an  ideal  situation  for  Ted, 
despite  his  preference  for  riding.  Afoot,  he  could  so  readily 
step  aside  to  start  a  '  goanner  '  up  a  tree,  or  pluck  an  out- 
of-the-way  growth  to  show  me. 

There  never  was  such  a  fellow  for  '  noticing  '  things,  as 
they  say  of  children.  Print  he  never  read,  so  far  as  I 
know,  and  perhaps  this  helped  to  make  him  so  amazingly 
keen  a  reader  of  Nature.  Not  the  littlest  comma  on  that 
page  ever  eluded  him. 

'  Hullo  !  '  he  would  say  when  Werrina  was  miles  away 
behind  us.  '  Who  'd  've  thought  o'  that  baldy-faced  steer 
o'  Murdoch's  bein'  out  here  ?  '  One  gazed  about  to 
locate  the  beast.  But,  no.  No  living  thing  was  in  sight. 
In  passing,  quite  casually,  Ted's  roving  eye  had  spied 
a  hoof  mark,  perhaps  a  day  old  or  more,  in  the  soft  bottom 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  89 

of  a  tiny  billabong ;  a  print  I  could  hardly  make  out, 
leave  alone  identify  as  having  been  made  by  this  beast 
or  the  other,  even  under  the  guidance  of  Ted's  pointing 
finger.  Yet  for  Ted  that  casual  glance — no  stooping,  no 
close  scrutiny — supplied  an  accurate  and  complete  pic- 
ture :  the  particular  beast,  its  gait,  occupation,  and  way 
of  heading,  and  the  period  at  which  it  had  passed  that  way. 
Withal,  it  was  true  enough,  as  the  storekeeper  said,  poor 
Ted  had  no  •  Systum  ' ;  or  none,  at  all  events,  of  the  kind 
cultivated  in  shops  and  offices. 

Ill 

However  much  at  fault  I  may  be  in  recollection  of  our 
arrival  at  Sydney,  my  memories  of  our  first  night  at 
Livorno  Bay  (so  my  father  christened  the  derelict's  resting- 
place)  could  hardly  be  more  vivid  and  distinct.  That 
night  marks  for  me  the  beginning  of  a  definite  epoch  in 
my  life. 

I  passed  the  spot  in  a  large  inter-state  steamer  last  year. 
There  was  no  sign  of  any  ship  there  then,  so  far,  at  all 
events,  as  I  could  make  out  with  a  borrowed  pair  of 
glasses ;  and  the  place  looked  very  much  the  same  as  any 
other  part  of  the  Australian  coast.  There  are  thousands 
of  such  indentations  around  the  shores  of  the  island 
continent,  with  low  headlands  of  jagged  rock  by  way  of 
horns,  and  terraces  of  shell-strewn  sand  dotted  over  with 
ti-tree  scrub,  which  merges  into  a  low-lying  bush  of  swamp 
oak  and  suchlike  growths,  among  which,  as  like  as  not, 
you  shall  find,  as  we  found,  a  more  or  less  extensive  salt- 
water lagoon,  over  the  sandy  bar  of  which  big,  tossing 
breakers  will  roll  in  from  the  Pacific  in  stormy  weather. 
Yes,  I  would  say  now  that  there  is  nothing  very  peculiar 
or  distinctive  about  Livorno  Bay  for  the  observer  who  is 
familiar  with  other  parts  of  Australia's  coast. 

But  in  my  youthful  eyes,  seen  on  the  evening  of  our 
arrival,  after  a  fifteen  miles'  walk,  and,  seen,  too,  in  the 


40   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

glow  of  a  singularly  angry-looking  evening  sky,  Livorno 
Bay,  with  its  derelict  barque  to  focus  one's  gaze,  pre- 
sented a  spectacle  almost  terrifying  in  its  desolation. 
Years  must  have  passed  since  anything  edible  could  have 
been  found  on  board  the  Livorno.  Yet  I  hardly  think  I 
should  exaggerate  if  I  said  that  two  thousand  birds  rose 
circling  from  various  points  of  vantage  about  the  derelict 
as  we  approached  her  sides.  That  this  winged  and  highly 
vocal  congregation  resented  our  intrusion  was  not  to  be 
doubted  for  a  moment.  Short  of  actually  attacking  us 
with  beak  and  claw,  the  creatures  could  hardly  have 
given  more  practical  expression  to  their  sentiments.  The 
circumstance  was  trivial,  of  course,  but  I  think  it  some- 
what dashed  my  father's  ardour,  and  I  know  it  struck  into 
my  very  vitals. 

'  Begone,  you  interlopers,  or  we  will  rend  you  !  This 
is  no  place  for  humans.  Here  is  only  death  and  desola- 
tion for  the  likes  of  you.  This  place  belongs  of  im- 
memorial right  to  us,  and  to  our  masters,  the  devouring 
elements.     Begone  ! ' 

So  it  seemed  we  were  screamed  at  from  thousands  of 
hoarse  throats. 

For  my  part  I  was  well  pleased  when  my  father  agreed 
to  Ted's  suggestion  that  we  should  postpone  till  morning 
our  inspection  of  the  ship,  and,  in  the  meantime,  concen- 
trate upon  the  more  immediate  necessity  of  pitching  camp 
for  the  night  in  the  shelter  of  the  timber  belt  and  outside 
the  domain  of  the  screaming  sea-birds.  Our  tent  was 
fortunately  not  one  of  the  cumbersome  sort  I  had  seen 
on  Wimbledon  Common  at  home,  but  a  light  Australian 
contrivance  of  cotton,  enclosing  a  space  ten  feet  by  eight, 
and  protected  by  a  good  large  fly.  Thanks  mainly  to 
Ted  and  his  axe  we  had  the  necessary  stakes  cut,  and  the 
tent  pitched  before  dark.  Meanwhile,  the  little  fire  Ted 
had  lighted  against  a  blackened  tree-stump  had  grown 
into  the  sort  of  fiery  furnace  that  was  associated  in  my 
mind  with  certain  passages  in  the  Old  Testament ;   and, 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  41 

suspended  by  a  piece  of  fencing  wire  from  a  cross  stake 
on  two  forked  sticks,  our  billy  was  boiling  vigorously. 

In  all  such  bush-craft  as  this  Ted  was  facile  princeps, 
and  he  asked  no  better  employment.  Jerry  was  turned 
out  to  graze,  belled  and  hobbled  (for  safety  in  a  strange 
place),  and  just  as  actual  darkness  closed  in  upon  us — no 
moon  was  visible  that  night — we  sat  down  at  the  mouth 
of  the  tent  to  sup  upon  corned  beef,  bread  and  cheese  and 
jam  ;  the  latter  in  small  tins  with  highly  coloured  paper 
wrappers. 

By  this  time  my  sense  of  chill  and  depression  had  pretty 
well  evaporated.  The  details  of  our  domesticity  were 
most  attractive  to  me.  But  I  am  not  sure  that  my  father 
quite  regained  his  spirits  that  evening.  We  each  had  a 
canvas  camp-stretcher  of  the  collapsible  sort.  In  ten 
minutes  Ted  had  made  himself  a  hammock  bed  of  two 
sacks,  two  saplings,  and  four  forked  stakes,  which  for  com- 
fort was  quite  equal  to  any  camp  cot  I  have  yet  seen. 
Sleep  came  quickly  to  me,  at  all  events,  and  whenever  I 
woke  during  the  night,  as  I  did  some  three  or  four  times, 
there  was  booming  in  my  ears  that  rude  music  which 
remained  the  constant  accompaniment  of  all  our  lives  and 
doings  in  Livorno  Bay  :  the  dull  roar  of  Pacific  breakers 
on  the  sand  below  us,  varied  by  a  long  sibilant  intaking 
of  breath,  as  it  seemed,  caused  by  the  back- wash  of  every 
wave's  subsidence. 

Very  gently,  to  avoid  disturbing  my  father — I  can  see 
his  face  on  the  flimsy  cot  pillow  now,  looking  sadly  fragile 
and  worn — I  crept  out  from  our  tent  in  time  to  see  the 
upper  edge  of  the  sun's  disc  (like  a  golden  dagger  of  the 
Moorish  shape)  flash  out  its  assurance  across  the  sea,  and 
gild  with  sudden  bravery  the  trucks  and  spars  and  frayed 
rigging  of  the  barque  Livorno.  Life  has  no  other  reassur- 
ance to  offer  which  is  quite  so  emphatic  as  that  of  the  new 
risen  sun ;  and  it  is  youth,  rather  than  culture,  which  yields 
the  finest  appreciation  of  this.  In  its  glad  light  I  ran 
and  laughed,  half  naked,  where  a  few  hours  earlier,  in  the 


42  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

murk  of  coming  night,  the  sense  of  my  own  helpless 
insignificance  in  all  that  solitude  had  descended  upon 
me  in  the  shape  of  physical  fear.  Sea  and  sand  laughed 
with  me  now,  where  before  they  had  smitten  me  with 
lonely  foreboding,  almost  with  terror.  I  had  my  first 
bathe  from  a  Pacific  beach  that  morning ;  and,  given 
just  a  shade  more  of  venturesomeness  in  the  outsetting, 
it  had  been  like  to  be  my  last.  In  Livorno  Bay  the 
breakers  were  big,  and  the  back-wash  of  their  surf  very 
insistent. 

The  fire  of  his  enthusiasm  was  once  more  alight  in  my 
father  when  I  got  back  to  our  camp  that  morning  ;  and 
one  might  have  supposed  it  nourished  him,  if  one  had 
judged  from  the  cursory  manner  in  which  his  share  of 
our  simple  breakfast  was  dispatched.  Then,  carrying 
with  him  a  tomahawk,  I  remember,  he  led  us  down  across 
the  sand  to  where  the  ship  lay,  so  deeply  bedded  that  one 
stepped  over  her  rail  as  it  might  have  been  the  coaming 
of  a  hatch.  Her  deck,  and  indeed  every  uncovered  part 
of  the  Livorno,  was  encrusted  in  the  droppings  of  multi- 
tudinous sea-fowl.  For  almost  as  many  years  as  I  had 
lived,  probably,  these  creatures  had  made  a  home  of  the 
derelict.  To  be  sure,  they  had  as  good  a  right  to  it  as 
we  had  ;  yet  I  remember  how  keenly  we  resented  their 
claims,  in  the  broad  light  of  day ;  even  as  they,  on  the 
previous  evening,  had  resented  us.  Ted  promised  them 
a  warm  time  of  it,  and  congratulated  himself  on  having 
brought  his  old  gun. 

'  I  '11  show  'em  whose  ship  it  is,'  he  said,  '  to-night.' 
And  the  boy  in  me  rose  in  sympathetic  response.  I 
suppose  I  looked  forward  to  the  prospect  of  those  birds 
being  given  a  taste  of  the  fear  they  had  helped  to  inspire 
in  me. 

The  Livorno  had  a  long,  low  poop,  no  more  than  three 
feet  high,  and  extending  forward  to  the  mainmast. 
She  had  none  of  the  Ariadne's  bright- work,  as  the  polished 
teak  was  always  called  on  that  ship.    Her  rails  and  deck- 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  43 

houses  had  been  painted  in  green  and  white,  and  I  made 
out  the  remains  of  stencilled  ornamentation  in  the 
corners  of  panels.  No  doubt  my  father  had  his  pre- 
conceptions regarding  the  derelict  of  which  he  had 
thought  so  much  in  the  past  week.  In  any  case  he  did 
not  linger  by  the  way,  but  walked  direct  to  the  cuddy  or 
saloon,  which  we  entered  by  a  deeply  encrusted,  sun- 
cracked  scuttle,  just  forward  of  the  mizzen-mast.  So 
here  we  were,  at  length,  at  the  heart  of  our  quest. 

Personally,  I  was  for  the  moment  disappointed.  My 
father,  being  wiser  and  knowing  better  what  to  expect, 
was  pleased,  I  think.  My  anticipations  had  doubtless 
taken  their  colour  from  recent  experience  of  the  trim, 
well-ordered  smartness  of  the  Ariadne's  saloon.  Here, 
on  board  the  derelict,  nothing  was  left  standing  which 
could  easily  be  carried  away.  The  cabins  opening  into 
the  little  saloon  had  no  doors,  save  in  the  case  of  one — 
the  captain's  room — that  had  been  split  down  the  centre, 
apparently  with  an  axe,  and  its  remains  hung  drunkenly 
now  upon  one  hinge,  which,  at  a  touch  from  Ted's  hand, 
parted  company  with  its  bulkhead,  leaving  the  door  to 
fall  clattering  to  the  deck.  But,  curiously  enough,  the 
good  hardwood  bunks  were  all  intact,  except  in  the  case 
of  one,  which  had,  apparently,  been  wantonly  smashed, 
perhaps  by  the  same  insensate  hand  that  smashed  the 
door. 

The  saloon  table  had  gone,  of  course,  and  the  chairs ; 
but  the  brass  cleats  which  had  held  them  to  their  places 
in  the  deck  were  there  still  to  show  us  where  our  pre- 
decessors here  had  sat  and  taken  their  meals.  Here 
they  had  done  their  gossiping,  no  doubt,  over  the  remains 
of  savoury  macaroni,  with,  perchance,  an  occasional 
flagon  of  Chianti  or  Barolo.  There  was  a  sort  of  buffet 
built  into  the  forward  bulkhead  ;  and  by  a  most  sur- 
prising chance  this  was  unhurt,  save  for  a  great  star  in 
the  mirror  behind  it.  Even  its  brass  rail  was  intact. 
Some  idle  boor  must  have  observed  this  solid  little  piece 


44   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

of  man's  handiwork,  and  then,  I  suppose,  struck  at  the 
mirror  with  his  axe — a  savage  and  blackguardly  act.  But 
here,  at  all  events,  was  our  little  store  cupboard. 

4  Sideboard  's  all  right  then,'  was  Ted's  grinning  com- 
ment.    *  And  a  man  could  still  see  to  shave  in  the  glass.* 

The  saloon  skylight  had  been  removed  bodily,  perhaps 
to  serve  some  cockatoo  bush  farmer  for  a  cucumber 
frame  !  And  the  result  of  this,  more  than  any  other 
circumstance,  had  been  to  give  the  saloon  its  desolate 
look  ;  for,  beneath  the  yawning  aperture  where  once  the 
skylight  had  stood,  there  was  now  an  unsavoury  mound 
of  bird's  droppings,  near  three  feet  high  at  its  apex. 
This  was  now  dust-dry ;  but  the  autumnal  rains  of  bygone 
seasons  had  streamed  upon  it  no  doubt,  with  the  result 
that  all  the  rest  of  the  saloon  was  several  inches  deep  in 
the  same  sort  of  covering.  There  were  naturally  no  stores 
in  the  pitch-black  lazareet  which  one  reached  through 
a  trap-door  in  the  saloon  deck ;  but  among  the  lumber 
there  we  found  an  old  bucket,  a  number  of  empty  tins, 
packing-cases,  and  the  like,  a  coal  shovel  with  a  broken 
handle,  and  two  tanks  in  which  ship's  biscuits  had  been 
kept.  How  these  latter  commodities  came  to  have  been 
spared  by  marauding  visitors  it  would  be  hard  to  say ;  for, 
in  the  bush,  every  one,  without  exception,  requires  tanks 
for  the  storage  of  rain-water. 

From  the  saloon  we  made  our  way  right  forward  to  the 
forecastle,  in  which  practically  no  damage  had  been  done ; 
for  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  little  was  there  which 
easily  could  be  damaged  or  removed.  No  anchors  or 
cables  were  to  be  seen,  but  the  seamen's  bunks  remained 
much  as  I  imagine  they  had  left  them  ;  and,  on  the  side 
of  one,  some  sundowner  had  contrived  to  scrawl,  appar- 
ently with  a  heated  wire,  this  somewhat  fatuous  legend  : 

'  Occewpide  by  me  Captin  Ned  Kelli  Bushranger. 
Chrismas  day  1868.     Not  too  bad.' 

In  many  other  parts  of  the  ship  we  found,  when  we 
came  to  do  our   cleaning,  initials,  dates,  and  occasional 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  45 

names,  rudely  carved.  But  the  only  attempt  at  a  written 
tribute  to  the  derelict's  quality  as  a  camping-place  was  the 
pretended  bushranger's  '  Not  too  bad  '  ;  a  thoroughly 
Australian  commentary,  and  probably  endorsed  in  speech 
at  the  time  of  writing  by  the  exclamation  :  '  My  word  1  ' 

Internally,  the  Livorno  had  been  very  thoroughly 
gutted,  even  to  the  removal  of  many  of  her  deck  joists 
and  'tween-decks'  stanchions.  But  in  her  galley,  which, 
having  remained  closed,  was  in  quite  good  order,  we  found 
the  cooking  range,  though  rusty,  intact.  It  had  been 
built  into  the  deck-house,  and,  being  partly  of  tiles,  would 
hardly  have  lent  itself  to  easy  transport  or  use  in  another 
place.  Ted  had  a  fire  burning  in  it  that  very  day,  and 
water  boiling  on  it  in  tins.  Hidden  under  much  moulder- 
ing rubbish  in  the  boatswain's  locker  were  found  two  deck 
scrapers,  which  proved  most  useful. 

Ted  strongly  advised  the  adoption,  as  living-room,  of 
the  forecastle ;  and  he  may  have  been  in  the  right  of 
it.  The  place  was  weather-proof,  its  tiny  skylight  being 
intact.  But  sentiment,  I  think,  attracted  my  father  to  the 
quarter-deck.  *  The  weather  side  of  the  poop's  my  only 
promenade,'  he  said  gaily.  '  And  those  square  stern  ports, 
with  the  carving  under  them — it  would  be  a  sin  to  leave 
them  to  the  birds.  Oh,  the  saloon  is  clearly  our  place, 
and  we  must  rig  a  shelter  over  the  skylight  by  and  by.' 

In  the  end  we  accomplished  little  or  nothing  beyond 
inspection  that  day.  Towards  evening  Ted  laid  in  a 
stock  of  firewood  beside  our  camp,  while  my  father  wrote 
a  letter  to  the  Wcrrina  storekeeper,  which  Ted  was  to 
take  in  next  day  with  a  cheque.  I  say  we  accomplished 
nothing,  because  I  can  remember  no  useful  work  done. 
Yet  I  do  vividly  remember  falling  asleep  over  my  supper, 
and  feeling  more  physically  weary  than  I  had  ever  been 
before.  We  were  on  our  feet  all  day,  of  course.  We  were 
gleaning  new  impressions  at  a  great  rate.  The  day  was, 
I  suppose,  a  pretty  full  one ;  and  assuredly  one  of  us  slept 
well  after  it. 


46   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

IV 

When  my  eyes  opened  next  morning,  dawn,  though  near 
at  hand,  had  not  yet  come.  His  pale-robed  heralds  were 
busy,  however,  diffusing  that  sort  of  nacreous  haze  which 
in  coastal  Australia  lights  the  way  for  each  day's  coming. 
Looking  out  over  the  pillow  of  my  cot  I  saw  Ted  among 
the  trees,  girthing  the  pack-saddle  on  Jerry.  In  a  very 
few  moments  I  was  beside  him,  and  in  five  minutes  he 
had  started  on  his  journey. 

'  I  '11  be  in  Werrina  for  breakfast,'  he  said. 

I  walked  a  few  hundred  yards  beside  him,  and  the  last 
glimpse  I  caught  of  him,  at  a  bend  over  which  the  track 
rose  a  little,  showed  Ted  seated  sideways  on  the  horse's 
hindquarters,  one  hand  resting  on  the  pack-saddle,  the 
other  waving  overhead  to  me.  A  precarious  perch  I 
thought  it,  but  as  it  saved  him  from  the  final  degradation 
of  walking,  I  have  no  doubt  it  suited  Ted  well  enough. 

The  sun  was  still  some  little  way  below  the  horizon 
when  Ted  disappeared,  and  I  was  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  camp.  Inland,  I  had  very  likely  been  bushed. 
Here,  vague  though  the  track  was,  the  sea's  incessant  call 
was  an  unfailing  guide.  But  it  was  in  those  few  minutes, 
spent  in  walking  back  towards  our  tent,  that  I  was  given 
my  first  taste  of  solitude  in  the  Australian  bush ;  and, 
boy  that  I  was,  it  impressed  me  greatly.  It  was  a  per- 
manent addition  to  my  narrow  store  of  impressions,  and 
it  is  with  me  yet. 

At  such  times  the  Australian  bush  has  qualities  which 
distinguish  it  from  any  other  parts  of  the  world  known  to 
me.  I  have  known  other  places  and  times  far  more  eerie. 
To  go  no  farther  there  are  parts  of  the  bush  in  which 
thousands  of  trees,  being  ring-barked,  have  died  and 
become  ghosts  of  trees.  Seen  in  the  light  of  a  half  moon, 
when  the  sky  is  broken  by  wind-riven  cloud,  these  spectral 
inhabitants  of  the  bush,  with  their  tattered  winding 
sheets  of  corpse-white  bark,   are  distinctly  more  eerie 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  47 

than  anything  the  dawn  had  to  show  me  beside  Livorno 
Bay. 

Withal,  the  half-hour  before  sunrise  has  a  peculiar 
quality  of  its  own,  in  the  bush,  which  I  found  very  mov- 
ing and  somewhat  awe-inspiring  upon  first  acquaintance. 
There  was  a  hush  which  one  could  feel  and  hear  ;  a  silence 
which  exercised  one's  hearing  more  than  any  sound. 
And  yet  it  was  not  a  silence  at  all ;  for  the  sea  never 
was  still  there.  It  was  as  though  the  bush  and  all  that 
dwelt  therein  held  its  breath,  waiting,  waiting  for  a  por- 
tent ;  and,  meantime,  watching  mc.  In  a  few  moments 
I  found  myself  also  waiting,  conscious  of  each  breath  I 
drew.  It  was  not  so  much  eerie  as  solemn.  Yes,  I  think 
it  was  the  solemnity  of  that  bush  which  so  impressed  me, 
and  for  the  time  so  humbled  me. 

A  few  moments  later  and  the  kindly  brightness  of  the 
new-risen  sun  was  glinting  between  tree-trunks,  the  bush 
began  to  breathe  naturally,  and  I  was  off  at  a  trot  for 
my  morning  dabble  in  the  surf. 

My  father  and  I  made  but  a  poor  show  as  housekeepers 
that  day.  I  suppose  we  neither  of  us  had  ever  washed  a 
plate,  or  even  boiled  a  kettle.  In  all  such  matters  of 
what  may  be  called  outdoor  domesticity  (as  in  the  use 
of  such  primitive  and  all-round  serviceable  tools  as  the 
axe),  the  Colonial-born  man  has  a  great  advantage  over 
his  Home-born  kinsman,  in  that  he  acquires  proficiency 
in  these  matters  almost  as  soon  and  quite  as  naturally 
as  he  learns  to  walk  and  talk.  And  not  otherwise  can 
the  sane  easy  master)'  of  things  be  acquired. 

My  father  had  some  admirably  sound  theories  about 
cooking.  He  had  knowledge  enough  most  heartily  to 
despise  the  Frenchified  menus  which.  I  believe,  were 
coming  into  vogue  in  London  when  we  left  it,  and  wannly 
to  appreciate  the  sterling  virtue  of  good  English  cookery 
and  food.  The  basic  aim  in  genuine  English  cookery 
is  the  conservation  of  the  natural  flavours  and  essences 
of  the  food  cooked.     And,  since  sound  English  meats  and 


48  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

vegetables  are  by  long  odds  the  finest  in  the  world,  there 
could  be  no  better  purpose  in  cooking  than  this.  Subtle 
methods  and  provocative  sauces,  which  give  their  own 
distinctive  flavour  to  the  dishes  in  which  they  are  used, 
are  well  enough  for  less  favoured  lands  than  England, 
and  a  much-needed  boon,  no  doubt.  They  are  a  wasteful 
mistake  in  England,  or  were,  at  all  events,  so  long  as 
unadulterated  English  food  was  available. 

My  father  taught  me  these  truths  long  ago,  and  I  am 
an  implicit  believer  in  them  to-day.  All  his  theories 
about  such  matters  were  sound ;  and  it  may  be  that, 
in  a  properly  appointed  kitchen,  he  could  have  turned 
out  an  excellent  good  meal — given  the  right  mood  for 
the  task.  But  I  will  admit  that  in  Livorno  Bay,  both 
on  this  our  first  day  alone  there,  and  ever  afterwards, 
my  father's  only  attempts  at  domestic  work  were  of  the 
most  sketchy  and  least  satisfactory  description ;  his 
grip  of  our  housekeeping  was  of  the  feeblest,  and  in  a 
very  short  time  the  matter  fell  entirely  into  my  hands 
when  Ted  was  not  with  us.  Ted  was  my  exemplar ; 
from  him  such  knowledge  and  ability  as  I  acquired  were 
derived.  But  to  his  shrewd  practicality  I  was  able  to 
add  something,  in  the  shape  of  theory  evolved  from 
my  father's  conversation  ;  and  thus  presently  I  obtained 
a  quite  respectable  grasp  of  bush  domesticity. 

This  day  of  Ted's  absence  in  Werrina  we  devoted  to 
a  more  or  less  systematic  exploration  of  our  territory. 
My  father  was  in  a  cheery  vein,  and  entertained  me  by 
bestowing  names  upon  the  more  salient  features  of  our 
domain.  The  two  horns  of  Livorno  Bay,  I  remember, 
were  Gog  and  Magog  ;  the  lagoon  remained  always  just 
The  Lagoon  ;  the  timber  belt  was  Arden  ;  our  camp, 
Zoar  ;  and  so  forth.  We  found  an  eminently  satisfactory 
little  spring,  not  quite  so  near  at  hand  as  the  water-hole 
from  which  Ted  had  drawn  our  supplies  till  now,  but 
yielding  brighter,  fresher  water.  And  we  botanised 
with  the  aid  of  a  really  charming  little  manuscript  book, 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  49 

bound  in  kangaroo-skin,  and  given  to  my  father  by  the 
widow  of  a  Queensland  squatter  whom  we  had  met  on 
the  coasting  steamer.  That  little  volume  is  among  my 
few  treasured  possessions  to-day.  Some  of  its  water- 
colour  sketches  look  a  little  worn  and  pallid,  after  all 
these  years,  but  it  is  a  most  instructive  book ;  and  from 
it  came  all  my  first  knowledge  of  the  various  wattles, 
the  different  mahoganies,  the  innumerable  gums,  the 
ferns,  creepers,  and  wild  flowers  of  the  bush. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  Ted  returned — in  a  cart.  We 
were  greatly  surprised  to  see  Jerry  between  the  shafts 
of  this  ancient  vehicle,  and  my  father  found  it  hard  to 
credit  that  any  cart  could  be  driven  over  the  bush  track 
by  which  we  had  travelled,  with  its  stumps  and  holes 
and  sudden  dips  to  watercourses.  However,  there  the 
cart  was,  its  harness  plentifully  patched  with  pieces  of 
cord  and  wire ;  and  it  seemed  well  laden,  too. 

1  Who  lent  it  you  ?  '  asked  my  father.  And  Ted 
explained  how  the  cart  had  been  offered  to  him  for  £3, 
and  how,  at  length,  he  had  bought  it  for  £2,  5s.  and  a 
drink.  It  seemed  a  sin  to  miss  such  a  chance,  but  if 
my  father  really  did  not  want  it,  well,  he,  Ted,  would 
pay  for  it  out  of  his  earnings.  Of  course  my  father 
accepted  responsibility  for  the  purchase,  and  very  useful 
the  crazy  old  thing  proved  as  time  went  on ;  for,  though 
its  collapse,  like  that  of  other  more  important  institutions, 
seemed  always  imminent,  it  never  did  actually  dissolve 
in  our  time,  and  only  occasionally  did  it  shed  any  vital 
portion  of  its  fabric.  Even  after  such  minor  catastrophes, 
it  always  bore  up  nobly  under  the  rude  first  (and  last) 
aid  we  could  give  with  cord,  or  green-hide  and  axed  wood. 

To  my  inexperience  it  seemed  that  Ted  had  brought 
with  him  a  wide  assortment  of  most  of  the  commodities 
known  to  civilisation.  The  unloading  of  the  cart  was 
to  me  as  the  enjoyment  of  a  monstrous  bran-pie ;  an 
entertainment  I  had  heard  of,  but  never  seen.  And  when 
I  heard  there  was  certainly  one  more  load,  and  probabl) 

D 


50   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

two,  to  come,  I  felt  that  we  really  were  rich  beyond  the 
dreams  of  most  folk.  I  recalled  the  precise  manner  in 
which  Fred  (the  Ariadne  rival  and  fellow-passenger, 
whose  surname  I  never  knew)  had  wilted  when  he  heard 
that  my  father  and  I  had  intended  travelling  steerage, 
and  from  my  heart  I  wished  he  could  see  this  cart-load 
of  assorted  goods.  '  Goods  '  was  the  correct  word,  I 
thought,  for  such  wholesale  profusion  ;  and  '  cart-load  ' 
had  the  right  spaciousness  to  indicate  a  measure  of  our 
abundance. 

There  were  several  large  sheets  of  galvanised  iron, 
appearing  exactly  as  one  in  the  cart,  but  covering  a 
notable    expanse    of    ground    when    spread    out    singly. 
These  were  for  a  roof  in  the  place  of  the  saloon  skylight. 
My  father  had  pished  and  tushed  and  pressed  for  a 
bark  roof ;  but  Ted,  in  his  bush  wisdom,  had  insisted  on 
the  prosaic  '  tin,'  as  a  catchment  area  for  rain-water  to 
be  stored  in  the  two  ship's  tanks.     There  were  brooms, 
scrubbing-brushes,  kettles,  pots,  pans,  crockery,  fishing- 
lines,  ammunition  for  Ted's  highly  lethal  old  gun,  and 
there  were  stores.     I  marvelled  that  stores  so  numer- 
ous and  varied  could  have  come  out  of  Werrina.     My 
imagination  was  particularly  fired  by  the  contemplation 
of  a  package  said  to  contain  a  gross  of  boxes  of  matches. 
Reckoning  on  fifty  to  the  box,  I  struggled  for  some  time 
with  a  computation  of  the  total  number  of  our  matches, 
giving  it  up  finally  when  I  had  reached  figures  which 
might  have  thrilled  a  Rothschild.     Our  sugar  was  not 
in  blue  paper  packages  of  a  pound  weight,  but  in  a  sack, 
as  it  might  be  for  the  sweetening  of  an  army  corps  * 
porridge.     And  our  tea  !     Like  the  true  Australian  he 
was,  Ted  had  actually  brought  us  a  twenty-six  pound 
case  of  tea.     It  was  a  wondrous  collection,  and  I  drew 
a  long  breath  when  I  remembered  that  there  was  more, 
much  more,   to  come.     Here  were  nails,  not  in  spiral 
twists  of  paper,  but  in  solid  seven-pound  packages,  and 
quite  a  number  of  them. 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  51 

Had  I  been  a  shopkeeper's  son,  I  suppose  these  trifles 
from  Wcrrina  would  have  been  esteemed  by  me  at 
something  like  their  real  value.  So  I  rejoice  that  I  was 
not  a  shopkeeper's  son,  for  I  still  cherish  a  lively  recol- 
lection of  the  glad  feeling  of  security  and  comfortable 
well-being  which  filled  my  breast  as  I  paced  round  and 
about  our  cart  and  all  it  had  brought  us.  Long  before 
sun-up  next  morning,  Ted  was  off  again  to  Werrina  ; 
but,  seeing  our  incapacity  on  the  domestic  side,  the  good 
fellow  gave  an  hour  or  two  before  starting  to  washing 
up  and  cooking  work  ;  and  I  pretended  to  work  with 
him,  out  there  in  the  star-light,  conversing  the  while  in 
whispers  to  avoid  disturbing  my  father. 

Two  more  journeys  Ted  made,  and  returned  fully 
laden  both  times,  the  old  cart  fairly  groaning  under  the 
weight  of  goods  it  held.  And  then  the  services  of  a 
bullock-driver  and  his  team  and  dray  had  subsequently 
to  be  requisitioned  to  bring  out  our  English  boxes  and 
baggage,  including  the  cases  of  my  father's  books.  Those 
books,  how  they  tempt  one  to  musing  digressions.  .  .  . 
But  of  that  in  its  place. 

By  the  time  the  carrier's  work  was  done  we  had  estab- 
lished something  of  a  routine  of  life,  though  this  was 
subject  to  a  good  deal  of  variation  and  disorder,  as  I 
remember,  so  long  as  the  tent  was  in  use.  Ted  had 
arranged  with  butcher  and  storekeeper  both  to  meet 
one  of  us  once  a  week  at  a  point  distant  some  six  miles 
from  Livorno  Bay,  where  our  track  crossed  a  road.  Our 
bread,  of  course,  we  baked  for  ourselves  ;  and  excellent 
bread  it  was,  while  Ted  made  it.  I  believe  that  even 
when  the  task  of  making  it  fell  into  my  hands,  it  was 
more  palatable  than  baker's  bread  ;  certainly  my  father 
thought  so,  and  that  was  enough  for  me. 

Our  hardest  work,  by  far,  was  the  cleaning  of  the 
Livorno.  There  was  a  spring  cleaning  with  a  vengeance  ! 
We  used  a  mixture  of  soft  soap  and  soda  and  sand,  which 
made  our  hands  all  mottled  :    huge  brown  freckles  over 


52  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

an  unwholesome  -  looking,  indurated,  fish-belly  grey. 
The  stuff  made  one's  finger-ends  smart  horridly,  I 
remember.  For  days  on  end  it  seemed  we  lived  in  this 
mess  ;  our  feet  and  legs  and  arms  all  bare,  and  perspira- 
tion trickling  down  our  noses,  while  soapy  water  and 
sand  crept  up  our  arms  and  all  over  our  bodies.  My 
father  insisted  on  doing  his  share,  though  frequently 
driven  by  mere  exhaustion  to  pause  and  lie  down  at  full 
length  upon  the  nearest  dry  spot.  I  have  always  re- 
gretted his  persistence  at  this  task,  for  which  at  that 
time  he  was  totally  unfit. 

However,  the  scraping  and  sanding  and  scrubbing  were 
ended  at  last,  and  I  will  say  that  I  believe  we  made  a  very 
creditable  job  of  it.  We  could  not  give  back  to  our 
barque  the  soundness  of  her  youth,  her  sea-going  prime, 
but  I  think  we  made  her  scrupulously  clean  and  sweet ; 
and  I  shall  not  forget  the  jubilant  sense  of  achievement 
which  spurred  us  on  all  through  the  scorching  hot  day 
upon  which  we  really  installed  ourselves. 

Ted  had  rigged  an  excellent  table  between  the  saloon 
stanchions,  and  three  packing-cases  with  blankets  over 
them  looked  quite  sumptuous  and  ottoman-like,  as  seats. 
Our  bedding  was  arranged  in  the  solid  hardwood  bunks 
which  had  accommodated  the  captain  and  mates  of  the 
Livorno  what  time  she  made  her  first  exit  from  the  har- 
bour of  Genoa.  Our  stores  were  neatly  stowed  in  various 
lockers,  and  in  Ted's  famous  *  sideboard  '  ;  our  kitchen 
things  found  their  appointed  places  in  the  galley  ;  our 
incongruous  skylight  roof,  with  its  guttering  and  adjacent 
tanks,  awaited  their  baptism  of  rain ;  my  father's  books 
were  arranged  on  shelves  of  Ted's  construction  ;  our 
various  English  belongings,  looking  inexpressibly  choice, 
intimate,  and  valuable  in  their  new  environment,  were 
disposed  with  a  view  to  convenience,  and,  be  it  said,  to 
appearances  ;   and — here  was  our  home. 

We  were  all  very  tired  that  night,  but  we  were  gay  over 
our  supper,  and  it  was  most  unusually  late  before  I  slept. 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  53 

Late  as  that  was,  however,  I  could  see  by  its  reflected 
light  on  the  deck  beams  that  my  father's  candle  was 
burning  still.  And  when  I  chanced  to  wake,  long  after- 
wards, I  could  hear,  until  I  fell  asleep  again,  the  slight 
sound  he  made  in  walking  softly  up  and  down  the  poop 
deck — a  lonely  man  who  had  not  found  rest  as  yet ;  who, 
despite  bright  flashes  of  gaiety,  was  far  from  happy,  a 
fact  better  understood  and  more  deeply  regretted  by  his 
small  son  than  he  knew. 


My  first  serious  preoccupation  regarding  ways  and 
means — the  money  question — began,  I  think,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  my  eleventh  birthday,  and  has  remained 
a  more  or  less  constant  companion  and  bedfellow  ever 
since. 

Now,  as  I  write,  I  am  perhaps  freer  than  ever  before 
from  this  sordid  preoccupation  ;  not  by  reason  of  fortun- 
ate investments  and  a  plethoric  bank  balance,  but  because 
my  needs  now  are  singularly  few  and  inexpensive,  and 
the  future — that  Damoclean  sword  of  civilised  life — no 
longer  stretches  out  before  me,  a  long  and  arid  expanse 
demanding  provision.  This  preoccupation  began  for  me 
in  the  week  of  my  eleventh  birthday,  when  my  father 
asked  me  one  evening  if  I  thought  we  could  manage  now 
without  Ted's  services. 

4  It 's  not  that  I  pay  him  much,'  said  my  father,  stroking 
his  chin  between  thumb  and  forefinger,  as  his  manner 
was  when  pondering  such  a  point ;  4  but  the  fact  is  we 
can  by  no  manner  of  juggling  pretend  to  be  able  to  afford 
even  that  little.  Then,  again,  you  see,  the  poor  chap 
must  eat.  The  fish  he  brings  us  arc  a  real  help,  and  no 
wage-earner  I  ever  met  could  take  pot-luck  more  cheer- 
fully than  Ted.  What  's  more,  I  like  him,  you  like  him. 
and  he  is,  I  know,  a  most  useful  fellow  to  have  about. 
But,  take  it  any  way  one  can.  he  must  represent  fifty  pounds 


54  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

a  year  in  our  rate  of  expenditure,  and —  Well,  you  see, 
Nick,  we  simply  haven't  got  it  to  spend.' 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  I  remember,  to  ask 
my  father  why  he  did  not  send  to  the  bank  and  ask  for 
more  money ;  and  by  that  may  be  gauged  the  crudely 
unsophisticated  stage  of  my  development.  But  I  must 
remember,  too,  that  I  bit  back  the  question,  and,  ignorant 
of  all  detail  though  I  was,  felt  intuitively  sure,  first,  that 
the  whole  subject  was  a  sore  and  difficult  one  for  my 
father,  and,  secondly,  that  I  must  never  ask  for  or  expect 
anything  calling  for  monetary  expenditure.  My  vague 
feeling  was  that  the  World  had  somehow  wronged  my 
father  by  not  providing  him  with  more  money.  I  felt 
instinctively  that  It  never  would  give  him  any  more  ; 
and  that  It  had  given  him  whatever  he  had,  only  as  the 
result  of  personal  sacrifices  which  should  never  have  been 
demanded  of  him.  I  resented  keenly  what  seemed  to  me 
the  World's  callous  and  unreasonable  discourtesy  to  such 
a  man  as  my  father,  whom,  I  thought,  It  should  have 
delighted  to  honour. 

As  illustrating  the  World's  coarse  and  brutal  injustice, 
I  thought,  there  was  the  case  of  a  man  like  Nelly  Fane's 
father,  or,  again,  the  storekeeper  in  Werrina.  (Mr.  Fane 
would  hardly  have  thanked  me  for  the  conjunction.) 
Neither,  it  was  clear,  possessed  a  tithe  of  the  brains,  the 
distinction,  the  culture,  or  the  charm  of  my  father ;  yet 
it  was  equally  obvious  (in  different  ways)  that  both  were 
a  good  deal  more  liberally  endowed  with  this  world's  gear 
than  we  were.  I  felt  that  the  whole  matter  ought  to  be 
properly  explained  and  made  clear  to  those  powers,  who- 
ever they  were,  who  controlled  and  ordered  It.  I  dis- 
tinctly remember  the  thought  taking  shape  in  my  mind 
that  Mr.  Disraeli  ought  to  know  about  it !  Meantime, 
my  concern  was,  as  far  as  might  be,  to  relieve  my  father 
of  anxiety,  and  so  minimise  as  much  as  possible  the  effects 
of  a  palpable  miscarriage  of  justice. 

The  thing  has  a  rather  absurd  and  pompous  effect  as 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  55 

I  set  it  down  on  paper ;  but  I  have  stated  it  truly,  none 
the  less,  however  awkwardly. 

The  fact  that  I  had  known  no  mother,  combined  with 
the  progressive  weakening  of  my  father's  health  and 
peace  of  mind  during  the  previous  year  or  so,  may  pro- 
bably have  influenced  my  attitude  in  all  such  matters, 
may  have  given  a  partly  feminine  quality  to  my  affection 
for  my  father.  I  know  it  seemed  to  me  unfitting  that  he 
should  ever  take  any  part  in  our  domestic  work  on  the 
Livorno,  and  very  natural  that  I  should  attend  to  all  such 
matters.  Also  I  had  felt,  ever  since  the  day  in  Richmond 
Park  when,  to  some  extent,  he  gave  me  his  confidence 
regarding  the  severance  of  his  connection  with  the  London 
newspaper  office,  that  my  father  needed  '  looking  after,' 
that  it  was  desirable  for  him  to  be  taken  care  of  and 
spared  as  much  as  possible  ;  and  that,  obviously,  I  was 
the  person  to  see  to  it.  Our  departure  from  England  had 
been  rather  a  pleasure  than  otherwise  for  me,  because  it 
had  seemed  to  place  my  father  more  completely  in  my 
hands.  Such  an  attitude  may  or  may  not  have  been 
natural  and  desirable  in  so  young  a  boy  ;  I  only  know 
that  it  was  mine  at  that  time. 

It  follows  therefore  that  I  told  my  father  we  could  per- 
fectly well  manage  without  Ted,  though,  as  a  fact,  I 
viewed  the  prospect,  not  with  misgiving  so  much  as  with 
very  real  regret.  I  had  grown  to  like  Ted  very  well  in 
the  few  months  he  had  spent  with  us,  and  to  this  day  I 
am  gratefully  conscious  of  the  practical  use  and  value  of 
many  lessons  learned  from  this  simple  teacher,  who  was 
so  notably  wanting,  by  the  Werrina  storekeeper's  way  of 
it,  in  ■  Systum.'  A  more  uniformly  kindly  fellow  I  do 
not  think  I  have  ever  met.  The  world  would  probably 
pronounce  him  an  idler,  and  it  is  certain  he  would 
never  have  accumulated  money  ;  but  he  was  not  really 
idle.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  full  of  activity,  and  of 
simple,  kindly  enthusiasms.  But  his  chosen  forms  of 
activity   rarely  led  him    to   the  production   of   what   is 


56  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

marketable,  and  he  very  quickly  wearied  of  any  set 
routine. 

'  Spare  me  days  !  '  Ted  cried,  when  my  father,  with 
some  circumlocutionary  hesitancy  and  great  delicacy, 
conveyed  his  decision  to  our  factotum.  '  Don't  let  the 
bit  o'  money  worry  ye,  Mr.  Freydon.  It 's  little  I  do, 
anyway.  Give  me  an  odd  shilling  or  two  for  me  'baccy 
an'  that,  when  I  go  into  Werrina,  an'  I  '11  want  no  wages. 
What 's  the  use  o'  wages  to  the  likes  o'  me,  anyhow  ?  ' 

I  could  see  that  this  put  my  father  in  something  of  a 
quandary.  A  certain  delicacy  made  it  difficult  for  him  to 
mention  the  matter  of  Ted's  food — the  good  fellow  had  a 
royal  appetite — and  he  did  not  want  to  appear  unfriendly 
to  a  man  who  simply  was  not  cognisant  of  any  such  things 
as  social  distinctions  or  obligations.  Finally,  and  with 
less  than  his  customary  ease,  my  father  did  manage  to 
make  it  plain  that  his  decision,  however  much  he  might 
regret  being  forced  to  it,  was  final ;  and  that  he  could  not 
possibly  permit  Ted's  proposed  gratuitous  sacrifice  of  his 
time  and  abilities. 

'  There  's  the  future  to  be  thought  of,  you  know,  Ted,' 
he  added.  (For  how  many  years  has  that  word  '  future  ' 
stood  for  anxiety,  gloom,  depression,  and  worry  ?) 
'  Such  a  capable  fellow  as  you  are  should  be  earning  good 
pay,  and,  if  you  don't  need  it  now,  banking  it  against  the 
day  when  you  will  want  it.'  (My  father  was  on  firmer 
ground  now,  and  a  characteristic  smile  began  to  lighten 
his  eyes  and  voice,  besides  showing  upon  his  expressive 
mouth.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  heard  him  laugh  out- 
right ;  but  his  chuckle  was  a  choice  incentive  to  merri- 
ment, and  he  had  a  smile  of  exceptional  sweetness.) 
'  There  '11  be  a  Mrs.  Ted  presently,  you  know,  and  how 
should  I  ever  win  her  friendship,  as  I  hope  to,  if  she  knew 
I  had  helped  to  prevent  her  lord  and  master  from  getting 
together  the  price  of  a  home  ?  No,  no,  Ted  ;  we  can't 
let  you  do  that.  But  if  anything  I  can  say  or  write  will 
help  you  to  a  place  worth  having,  I  'm  very  much  at  your 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  57 

service  ;  and  if  you  will  come  and  pay  us  a  visit  whenever 
you  feel  like  sparing  a  Sunday  or  holiday,  we  shall  both 
take  it  kindly  in  you,  and  Nick  here  will  bless  you  for  it, 
won't  you,  Nick  ?  ' 

I  agreed  in  all  sincerity,  and  so  the  matter  was  decided. 
But  Ted  positively  insisted  on  being  allowed  to  stay  one 
further  week  with  us,  without  pay,  in  order,  he  said, 
4  to  finish  my  mate's  eddication  as  a  bushman.'  '  My 
mate,'  of  course,  was  myself.  In  the  Old  World  such  free- 
dom of  speech  would  perhaps  indicate  disrespect,  and 
would  almost  certainly  be  resented  as  such.  But  we 
had  learned  something  of  Australian  ways  by  this  time  ; 
and  if  my  father's  eyebrows  may  have  risen  ever  so  slightly 
at  that  word  '  mate,'  I  was  frankly  pleased  and  flattered 
by  it.  Then,  as  now,  I  could  appreciate  as  a  compliment 
the  inclination  of  such  a  good  fellow  to  give  me  so  friendly 
a  title ;  and  yet  I  fear  me  no  genuine  democrat  would 
admit  that  I  had  any  claim  to  be  regarded  as  a  disciple 
of  his  cult ! 

His  mind  deliberately  bent  on  conveying  instruction, 
Ted  proved  rather  a  poor  teacher.  In  that  rdle  he  was 
the  least  thing  tiresome,  and  given  to  enlargement  upon 
unessentials,  while  overlooking  the  things  that  matter. 
Unconsciously  he  had  taught  me  much  ;  in  his  teaching 
week  he  rather  fretted  me.  But,  all  the  same,  I  was 
sorry  when  the  end  of  it  arrived.  We  had  arranged  for 
him  to  drive  with  me  to  the  point  at  which  our  track 
crossed  a  main  road,  where  wc  should  meet  the  store- 
keeper's cart.  There  would  be  stores  for  me  to  bring 
back,  and  Ted  would  finish  his  journey  with  the  store- 
keeper's man.  Ted  insisted  on  making  me  a  present  of  his 
own  special  axe,  which  he  treated  and  regarded  as  some 
men  will  treat  a  pet  razor.  He  had  taught  me  to  use 
and  keep  it  fairly  well.  I  gave  him  my  big  horn-handled 
knife,  which  was  quite  a  tool-kit  in  itself ;  and  my  father 
gave  him  a  hunting-crop  to  which  he  had  taken  a  desperate 
fancy. 


58  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

The  storekeeper's  man  witnessed  our  parting,  and  that 
kept  me  on  my  dignity  ;  but  when  the  pair  of  them  were 
out  of  sight,  I  felt  I  had  lost  a  friend,  and  had  many  cares 
upon  my  shoulders.  Driving  back  alone  through  the 
bush  with  our  stores,  I  made  some  fine  resolutions.  I 
was  now  in  my  twelfth  year,  and  very  nearly  a  man,  I 
told  myself.  It  would  be  my  business  to  keep  our  home 
in  order,  to  take  particularly  good  care  of  my  father,  and 
to  see  that  he  was  as  comfortable  as  I  could  make  him. 
Certainly,  I  was  a  very  serious-minded  youngster  ;  and  it 
did  not  make  me  less  serious  to  find  when  I  got  back  to 
the  Livorno  that  my  father  was  lying  in  his  bunk  in  some 
pain,  and,  as  I  knew  at  first  glance,  very  much  depressed. 
He  had  strained  or  hurt  himself  in  some  way  in  cutting 
firewood. 

'  You  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,  you  know,  father,'  I 
remember  saying,  very  much  as  a  nurse  or  parent  might 
have  said  it.  '  We  've  plenty  stacked  in  the  main  hatch, 
and  you  know  the  wood  's  my  job.' 

He  smiled  sadly.  '  I  'm  not  quite  sure  that  there  's 
any  work  here  that  doesn't  seem  to  be  your  "  job,"  old 
fellow,'  he  said.  '  At  least,  if  any  of  it 's  mine,  it  must 
be  a  kind  that 's  sadly  neglected.' 

'  Well,  but,  father,  you  have  more  important  things  ; 
you  have  your  writing.  The  little  outside  jobs  are  mine, 
of  course.  I  've  learned  it  all  from  Ted.  You  really  must 
trust  me  for  that,  father.' 

'  Ah,  well,  you  're  a  good  lad,  Nick  ;  and  we  must  see 
if  I  cannot  set  to  seriously  in  the  matter  of  doing  some  of 
this  writing  you  talk  of.  It 's  high  time  ;  and  it  may  be 
easier  now  we  are  alone.  No,  I  don't  think  I  '11  get  up 
to  supper  this  evening,  Nick.  I  'm  not  very  well,  to  tell 
the  truth,  and  a  quiet  night's  rest  here  will  be  best  for 
me.' 

We  had  a  few  fowls  then  in  a  little  bush  run,  and  I 
presently  had  a  new-laid  egg  beaten  up  for  my  patient. 
This  he  took  to  oblige  me  ;    but  his  '  quiet  night's  rest' 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  59 

did  not  amount  to  much,  for  each  time  I  waked  through 
the  night  I  knew,  either  by  the  light  burning  beside  him, 
or  by  some  slight  movement  he  made,  that  my  father  was 
awake. 

VI 

In  this  completely  solitary  way  we  lived  for  some  eight 
months  after  Ted  left  us.  There  were  times  when  my 
father  seemed  cheery  and  in  much  better  health.  In 
such  periods  he  would  concern  himself  a  good  deal  in  the 
matter  of  my  education. 

4  It  may  never  be  so  valuable  to  you  as  Ted's  "  eddi- 
cation,"  '  he  said  ;  '  but  a  gentleman  should  have  some 
acquaintance  with  the  classics,  Nick,  both  in  our  tongue 
(the  nobility  of  which  is  not  near  so  well  understood  as 
it  might  be)  and  in  the  tongues  of  the  ancients.' 

Once  he  said  :  '  We  have  lived  our  own  Odyssey,  old 
fellow,  without  writing  it ;  but  I  'd  like  you  to  be  able  to 
read  Homer's.' 

As  a  fact,  I  never  have  got  so  far  as  to  read  it  with 
any  comfort  in  the  original ;  and  I  suppose  a  practical 
educationalist  would  say  that  such  fitful,  desultory  in- 
struction as  I  did  receive  from  my  father  in  our  cuddy 
living-room  on  board  the  Livorno  was  quite  valueless. 
But  I  fancy  the  expert  would  be  wrong  in  this,  as  experts 
sometimes  arc.  In  the  schoolman's  sense  I  learned  little 
or  nothing.  But  nathclcss  I  believe  these  hours  spent 
with  my  father  among  his  books,  and  yet  more,  it  may  be, 
other  hours  spent  with  him  when  he  had  no  thought  of 
teaching  mc,  had  their  very  real  value  in  the  process  of 
my  mental  development.  If  they  did  not  give  me  much 
of  actual  knowledge,  they  helped  to  give  me  a  mind  of 
sorts,  an  inclination  or  bent  toward  those  directions  in 
which  intellectual  culture  is  obtainable.  Else,  surely,  I 
had  remained  all  my  days  a  hewer  of  wood  and  a  drawer 
of  water — with  more  of  health  in  mind  and  body  and 
means,  perhaps,  than  arc  mine  to-day  !     Well,  yes;  and 


60  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

that,  too,  is  likely  enough.  At  all  events  I  choose  to 
thank  my  father  for  the  fact  that  at  no  period  of  my  life 
have  I  cared  to  waste  time  over  mere  vapid  trash,  whether 
spoken  or  printed. 

Outside  his  own  personal  feelings  and  mental  processes, 
the  which  he  never  discussed  with  me,  there  was  no  set 
of  subjects,  I  think,  that  my  father  excluded  from  the 
range  of  our  conversations.  Indeed,  I  think  that  in  those 
last  months  of  our  life  on  the  Livorno,  he  talked  pretty 
much  as  freely  with  me,  and  as  variously,  as  he  would 
have  talked  with  any  friend  of  his  own  age.  In  the 
periods  when  we  were  not  together,  he  would  be  sitting 
at  the  saloon  table,  with  paper  and  pens  before  him,  or 
pacing  the  seaward  side  of  the  poop,  or  lying  resting  in 
his  bunk,  or  on  the  deck.  Frequent  rest  became  increas- 
ingly necessary  for  him.  His  strength  seemed  to  fade 
out  from  him  with  the  mere  effluxion  of  time.  He  often 
spoke  to  me  of  the  curious  effects  upon  men's  minds  of 
the  illusions  we  call  nostalgia.  But  he  allowed  no  personal 
bearing  to  his  remarks,  and  never  hinted  that  he  re- 
gretted leaving  England,  or  wished  to  return  there. 

Physically  speaking,  I  doubt  if  any  life  could  be  much 
healthier  than  ours  was  on  the  Livorno.  Dress,  for  each 
of  us  alike,  consisted  of  two  garments  only,  shirt  and 
trousers.  Unless  when  going  inland  for  some  reason, 
we  went  always  barefoot.  Of  what  use  could  shoes  be 
on  the  Livorno's  decks — washed  down  with  salt  water 
every  day — or  the  white  sands  of  the  bay.  Our  dietary, 
though  somewhat  monotonous,  was  quite  wholesome. 
We  lacked  other  vegetables,  but  grew  potatoes,  pumpkins, 
and  melons  in  plenty.  Fresh  fish  we  ate  most  days, 
and  butcher's  meat  perhaps  twice  or  thrice  a  week. 
Purer  air  than  that  we  breathed  and  lived  in  no  sanatorium 
could  furnish,  and  the  hours  we  kept  were  those  of  the 
nursery ;  though,  unfortunately,  bed-time  by  no  means 
always  meant  sleeping-time  for  my  father. 

Withal,   even    my  inexperience   did   not  prevent  my 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  61 

realisation  of  the  sinking,  fading  process  at  work  in  my 
father.  Its  end  I  did  not  foresee.  It  would  have  gone 
hard  with  me  indeed  to  have  been  consciously  facing 
that.  But  I  was  sadly  enough  conscious  of  the  process  ; 
and  a  competent  housewife  would  have  found  humorous 
pathos,  no  doubt,  in  my  efforts,  by  culinary  means,  to 
counteract  this.  My  father's  appetite  was  capricious, 
and  never  vigorous.  There  was  a  considerable  period 
in  which  I  am  sure  quite  half  my  waking  hours  (not 
to  mention  dream  fancies  and  half  waking  meditations 
in  bed)  were  devoted  to  thinking  out  and  preparing 
special  little  dishes  from  the  limited  range  of  food-stuffs 
at  my  command. 

4  A  s'prise  for  you  this  morning,  father,'  I  would  say, 
as  I  led  the  way,  proudly,  to  our  dining-table,  or,  in  one 
of  his  bad  times,  arrived  at  his  bunk-side,  carrying  the 
carefully  pared  sheet  of  stringy  bark  which  served  us  for 
a  tray.  There  would  be  elaborate  uncoverings  on  my 
side,  and  sniffs  of  pretended  eagerness  from  my  father; 
and,  thanks  to  the  unvarying  kindliness  and  courtesy 
of  his  nature,  I  dare  say  my  poor  efforts  really  were  of 
some  value,  because  full  many  a  time  I  am  sure  they  led 
to  his  eating  when,  but  for  consideration  of  my  feelings, 
he  had  gone  unnourishcd,  and  so  aggravated  his  growing 
weakness. 

'  God  bless  my  soul,  Nick,'  he  would  say,  after  a  taste 
of  my  latest  concoction  ;  *  what  would  they  not  give  to 
have  you  at  the  Langham,  or  Simpson's  ?  I  believe 
you  are  going  to  be  a  second  Soyer,  and  control  the 
destinies  of  empires  from  a  palace  kitchen.  Bush 
cooking,  forsooth  !  Why  this — this  latest  triumph  is 
nectar — ambrosial  stuff,  Nick — more  good,  hearty  body 
in  it  than  any  wines  the  gods  ever  quaffed.  You  '11  see, 
I  shall  begin  forthwith  to  lay  on  fat,  like  a  Christmas 
turkey.' 

My  father  could  not  always  rise  to  such  nights,  of 
course  ;    but  many  and  many  a  time  he  took  a  meal  he 


62  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

would  otherwise  have  lacked,  solely  to  gratify  his  small 
cook. 

There  came  a  time  when  my  father  passed  the  whole 
of  every  morning  in  bed,  and,  later,  a  time  when  he  left 
his  bunk  for  no  more  than  an  hour  or  two  each  afternoon. 
The  thought  of  seeking  a  doctor's  help  never  occurred  to 
me,  and  my  father  never  mentioned  it.  I  suppose  we 
had  grown  used  to  relying  upon  ourselves,  to  ignoring  the 
resources  of  civilisation,  which,  indeed,  for  my  part,  I 
had  almost  forgotten.  Not  often,  I  fancy,  in  modern 
days  has  a  boy  of  eleven  or  twelve  years  passed  through 
so  strange  an  experience,  or  known  isolation  more 
complete. 

The  climax  of  it  all  dates  in  my  memory  from  an 
evening  upon  which  I  returned  with  Jerry  from  a  journey 
to  the  road  (for  stores)  to  find  my  father  lying  unconscious 
beside  the  saloon  table,  where  his  paper  and  pens  were 
spread  upon  a  blotting-pad.  Fear  had  my  very  heart  in 
his  cold  grip  that  night.  There  was,  no  doubt,  a  certain 
grotesqueness,  due  to  ignorance,  about  many  of  my 
actions.  In  some  book  (of  Fielding's  belike)  I  had  read 
of  burnt  feathers  in  connection  with  emotional  young 
ladies'  fainting  fits.  So  now,  like  a  frightened  stag,  I 
flew  across  the  sand  to  our  fowl  run,  and  snatched  a 
bunch  of  feathers  from  the  first  astonished  rooster  my 
hand  fell  upon.  A  few  seconds  later,  these  were  smoking 
in  a  candle  flame,  and  thence  to  my  father's  nostrils. 
To  my  ignorant  eyes  he  showed  no  sign  of  life  whatever, 
but  none  the  less — again  inspired  by  books — I  fell  now 
to  chafing  his  thin  hands.  And  then  to  the  feathers 
again.  Then  back  to  the  hands.  Lack  of  thought 
preserved  me  from  the  customary  error  of  attempting  to 
raise  the  patient's  head  ;  but  no  doubt  my  ignorance 
prevented  my  being  of  much  real  service,  though  every 
nerve  in  me  strained  to  the  desire. 

My  father's  recovery  of  robust  health,  or  my  own 
sudden  acquisition  of  a  princely  fortune,  could  hardly 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  63 

have  brought  a  deeper  thrill  of  gladness  and  relief  than 
that  which  came  to  me  with  the  first  flutter  of  the  veined, 
dark  eye-lids  upon  which  my  gaze  was  fastened.  A  few 
moments  later,  and  he  recognised  me ;  another  few 
minutes,  and,  leaning  shakily  on  my  shoulder,  he  reached 
the  side  of  his  bunk.  When  his  head  touched  the  pillow, 
he  gave  me  a  wan  smile,  and —  '  So  you  see  you  can't 
trust  me  to  keep  house  even  for  one  afternoon,  Nick,' 
he  said. 

This  almost  unbalanced  mc,  and  only  an  exaggerated 
sense  of  responsibility  as  nurse  and  housekeeper  kept 
back  the  tears  that  were  pricking  like  ten  thousand 
needles  at  my  eyes.  Savagely  I  reproached  myself 
for  having  been  away,  and  for  having  no  foreknowledge 
of  the  coming  blow.  In  one  of  his  bags  my  father  had 
a  flask  of  brandy,  and,  guided  by  his  directions,  I  un- 
earthed this  and  administered  a  little  to  the  patient. 
Promising  that  I  would  look  in  every  few  minutes,  I 
hurried  off  then  to  relight  the  galley  fire  and  prepare 
something  for  supper. 

Later  in  the  evening  my  father  became  brighter  than 
he  had  been  for  weeks,  and,  child-like,  I  soon  exchanged 
my  fears  for  hopes.  And  then  it  was,  just  as  I  was 
turning  in,  that,  speaking  in  quite  a  cheery  tone,  my 
father  said  : 

*  I  haven't  taken  half  thought  enough  for  you,  Nick 
boy  ;  and  yet  you  've  set  me  the  best  possible  kind  of 
example.  It 's  easy  to  laugh  at  the  simple  folks'  way  of 
talking  about  "  if  anything  happens  "  to  one.  But  the 
idea  's  all  right,  and  ought  not  to  be  lost  sight  of.  Well 
then,  Nick,  if  "  anything "  should  "  happen  "  to  me, 
at  any  time,  I  want  you  to  harness  up  Jerry  and  drive 
straight  away  into  Wcrrina,  with  the  two  letters  that  I 
left  on  the  cuddy  table.  One  is  for  the  doctor  there — 
deliver  that  first — and  the  other  is  for  a  Roman  Catholic 
priest,  Father  O'Mallcy ;  deliver  that  next.  It  is  im- 
portant, and  must  not  be  lost,  for  there  's  money  in  it. 


64  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

I  wish  it  were  more — I  wish  it  were.  Bring  them  here 
now,  Nick.' 

I  brought  the  letters,  and  they  were  placed  under  a 
weight  on  the  little  shelf  over  my  father's  head. 

'  Don't  forget  what  I  said,  Nick  ;  and  do  it — exactly, 
old  fellow.  And  now,  let  us  forget  all  about  it.  That 
gruel,  or  whatever  it  was  you  gave  me  just  now,  has  made 
me  feel  so  comfortable  that  I  'm  going  to  have  a  beautiful 
sleep,  and  wake  up  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  to-morrow.  Give 
me   your   hand,    boy.      There — good-night !     God   bless 


you 


He  turned  on  his  shoulder,  perhaps  to  avoid  seeing  my 
tears,  and  again,  perhaps,  I  have  thought,  to  avoid  my 
seeing  the  coming  of  tears  in  his  own  eyes.  He  had 
kissed  my  forehead,  and  I  could  not  remember  ever 
being  kissed  by  him  before.  For,  as  long  as  my  memory 
carried  me,  our  habit  had  been  to  shake  hands,  like  two 
men.  .  .  . 

I  find  an  unexpected  difficulty  in  setting  down  the 
details  of  an  experience  which,  upon  the  whole,  produced 
a  deeper  impression  on  me,  I  think,  than  any  other 
event  in  my  life.  When  all  is  said,  can  any  useful  pur- 
pose be  served  by  observing  at  this  stage  of  my  task  a 
particularity  which  would  be  exceedingly  depressing  to 
me  ?  I  think  not.  There  is  assuredly  no  need  for  me, 
of  all  people,  to  court  melancholy.  I  think  that,  without 
great  fullness  at  this  point  in  my  record,  I  can  gauge 
pretty  accurately  the  value  as  a  factor  in  my  growth  of 
this  particular  experience,  and  so  I  will  be  very  brief. 

On  the  fifth  evening  after  that  of  the  attack  which 
left  him  unconscious  on  the  saloon  deck,  my  father  died, 
very  peacefully,  and,  I  believe,  quite  painlessly.  He 
spoke  to  me,  and  with  a  smile,  only  a  few  minutes  before 
he  drew  his  last  breath. 

'  I  'm  going,  Nick — going — to  rest,  boy.  Don't  cry, 
Nick.     Best  son.  .  .  .  God  bless.  .  .  .' 

Those  were  the  last  words  he  spoke.     For  two  hours 


BOYHOOD— AUSTRALIA  65 

or  more  before  that  time,  he  had  lain  with  eyes  closed, 
breathing  lightly,  perhaps  asleep,  certainly  unconscious. 
Now  he  was  dead.  I  was  under  no  sort  of  illusion  about 
that.  Something  which  had  been  hanging  cold  as  ice 
over  my  heart  all  day  had  fallen  now,  like  an  axe-blade, 
and  split  my  heart  in  twain.  So  I  felt.  There  was  the 
gentle  suggestion  of  a  smile  still  about  the  dead  lips, 
but  something  terrible  had  happened  to  my  father's 
eyes.  I  know  now  that  mere  muscular  contraction  was 
accountable  for  this,  and  not,  as  it  seemed,  sudden 
terror  or  pain.  But  the  effect  of  that  contraction  upon 
my  lonely  mind  !  .  .  . 

Well,  I  had  two  things  to  do,  and  with  teeth  set  hard 
in  my  lower  lip  I  set  to  work  to  do  them.  With  shaking 
hands  I  closed  my  father's  eyelids  and  drew  the  sheet  over 
his  face.  Then  I  took  the  two  letters  from  the  shelf  and 
thrust  them  in  the  breast  of  my  shirt. 

Walking  stiffly — it  seemed  to  me  very  necessary  that 
I  should  keep  all  my  muscles  quite  rigid — I  left  the  ship, 
harnessed  Jerry,  and  drove  off  into  the  darkling  bush 
towards  Werrina.  The  sun  had  disappeared  before  I 
left  my  father's  side,  and  the  track  to  Werrina  was 
fifteen  miles  long.  A  strange  drive,  and  a  queer  little 
numbed  driver,  creaking  along  through  the  ghostly  bush, 
exactly  as  a  somnambulist  might,  the  most  of  his  faculties 
in  abeyance.  Three  words  kept  shaping  themselves  in 
my  mind,  I  know,  and  then  fading  out  again,  like  shadows. 
They  never  were  spoken.  My  lips  did  not  move,  I  think, 
all  through  the  long,  slow  night  drive.  The  three  words 
were  : 

4  Father  is  dead.' 


66  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA 


We  wore  no  uniform  at  St.  Peter's  Orphanage,  but  there 
were  plenty  of  other  reminders  to  keep  us  conscious  that 
we  were  inmates  of  an  institution,  and  what  is  called  a 
charitable  institution  at  that.  At  all  events  I,  personally, 
was  reminded  of  it  often  enough ;  but  I  would  not  say 
that  the  majority  of  the  boys  thought  much  of  the  point. 
My  upbringing,  so  far,  had  not  been  a  good  training  for 
institutional  life.  And  then,  again,  my  ignorance  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion  was  complete.  I  had  not  been 
particularly  well  posted  perhaps  regarding  the  church  of 
my  fathers — the  Church  of  England ;  but  I  had  never 
set  foot  in  a  Roman  Catholic  place  of  worship,  nor  set- 
eyes  upon  an  image  of  the  Virgin.  Occasionally,  my 
father  had  gone  with  me  to  church  in  London  ;  but,  as  a 
rule,  the  companion  of  my  devotions  had  been  a  servant. 
And  in  Australia  neither  my  father  nor  I  had  visited  any 
church. 

I  gathered  gradually  that  my  father  had  once  met  and 
chatted  with  Father  O'Malley  for  a  few  minutes  in 
Werrina,  learning  in  that  time  of  the  reverend  father's 
supervisory  connection  with  St.  Peter's  Orphanage  at 
Myall  Creek,  eleven  miles  down  the  coast.  It  is  easy 
now  to  understand  how,  pondering  sadly  over  the  ques- 
tion of  what  should  become  of  me  when  '  anything  hap- 
pened '  to  him,  my  father  had  seized  upon  the  idea  of  this 
Orphanage,  the  only  institute  of  its  kind  within  a  hundred 
miles.  He  had  never  seen  the  place,  and  knew  nothing 
of  it.     But  what  choice  had  he  ? 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  67 

And  so  I  became  a  duly  registered  orphan,  and  an  in- 
mate of  St.  Peter's.  The  letter  I  took  to  Father  O'Malley 
contained,  in  bank-notes,  all  the  money  of  which  my 
father  died  possessed.  To  this  day  I  do  not  know  what 
the  amount  was,  save  that  it  was  more  than  one  hundred 
pounds,  and,  almost  certainly,  under  three  hundred 
pounds.  The  letter  made  a  gift  of  this  money  to  the 
Orphanage,  I  believe,  on  the  understanding  that  the 
Orphanage  took  me  in  and  cared  for  me.  It  also,  I 
understood,  authorised  Father  O'Malley  to  sell  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Orphanage  all  my  father's  belongings  on 
board  the  Livorno,  with  the  exception  of  the  books 
and  papers,  which  were  to  be  held  in  trust  for  me,  and 
handed  over  to  me  when  I  left  the  institution.  Knowing 
nobody  in  the  district,  I  do  not  see  that  my  father  could 
with  advantage  have  taken  any  other  course  than  the 
one  he  chose  ;  and  I  am  very  sure  that  he  believed  he 
was  doing  the  best  that  could  be  done  for  me  in  the 
circumstances. 

Like  every  other  habitation  in  that  countryside,  the 
Orphanage  was  a  wooden  structure :  hardwood  weather- 
board walls  and  galvanised  iron  roof.  But,  unlike  a  good 
many  others,  it  was  well  and  truly  built,  with  a  view  to 
long  life.  It  stood  three  feet  above  the  ground  upon  piers 
of  stone,  each  of  which  had  a  mushroom-shaped  cap  of 
iron,  to  check,  as  far  as  might  be,  the  onslaught  of  the 
white  ant,  that  destructive  pest  of  coastal  Australia  and 
enemy  of  all  who  live  in  wooden  houses.  Also,  it  was  kept 
well  painted,  and  cared  for  in  every  way,  as  few  buildings 
in  that  district  were.  In  Australia  generally,  even  in 
those  days,  labour  was  a  somewhat  costly  eommodity. 
At  the  Orphanage  it  was  the  one  thing  used  without  stint, 
for  it  cost  nothing  at  all. 

As  I  was  being  driven  to  the  Orphanage  in  Father 
O'Malley's  sulky,  behind  his  famous  trotting  marc  Jinny, 
I  hazarded  upon  a  note  of  interrogation  the  remark  that 
my  father  would  be  buried. 


68   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

'  Surely,  surely,  my  boy  ;  I  expect  he  will  be  buried  at 
Werrina  to-morrow.' 

This  was  on  the  morning  after  my  delivery  of  the  letters 
in  Werrina.  I  had  spent  the  night  in  Father  O'Malley's 
house.  Somehow,  I  conveyed  the  suggestion  that  I 
wanted  to  attend  that  burying.  The  priest  nodded 
amiably. 

'  Aye,'  he  said  ;  '  we  '11  see  about  it,  we  '11  see  about  it, 
presently.  But  just  now  you  're  going  to  a  beautiful 
house  at  Myall  Creek — St.  Peter's.  And,  if  ye  're  a  real 
good  lad,  ye  '11  be  let  stay  there,  an'  get  a  fine  education, 
an'  all — if  ye  're  a  good  lad.  Y'r  poor  father  asked  this 
for  ye,  like  a  wise  man  ;  and  if  we  can  get  ut  for  ye,  the 
sisters  will  make  a  man  of  ye  in  no  time — if  ye  're  a  good 
lad.' 

'  Yes,  sir,'  I  replied  meekly  ;  and,  so  far  as  I  remember, 
spake  no  other  word  while  seated  in  that  swiftly  drawn 
sulky.  I  learned  afterwards  that  the  reverend  father 
was  not  only  a  good  judge  of  horse-flesh,  but  a  famous 
hand  at  a  horse  deal,  just  as  he  was  a  notably  shrewd  man 
of  business,  and  good  at  a  bargain  of  any  kind.  So  I  fancy 
was  every  one  connected  with  the  Orphanage. 

I  did  not,  as  a  fact,  attend  my  father's  funeral,  nor  was 
I  ever  again  as  far  from  Myall  Creek  as  Werrina  during 
the  whole  of  my  term  at  the  Orphanage. 

There  were  fifty-nine  '  inmates,'  as  distinguished  from 
other  residents  there,  when  my  name  was  entered  on  the 
books  of  St.  Peter's  Orphanage.  So  I  brought  the  ranks 
of  the  orphans  up  to  sixty.  The  whole  institution  was 
managed  by  a  Sister-in-charge  and  three  other  sisters  : 
Sister  Agatha,  Sister  Mary,  and  Sister  Catharine.  No 
doubt  the  Sister-in-charge  had  a  name,  but  one  never 
heard  it.  She  was  always  spoken  of  as  '  Sister-in-charge.' 
There  was  no  male  member  of  the  staff  except  Tim  the 
boatman  ;  and  he  was  hardly  like  a  man,  in  the  ordinary 
worldly  sense,  since  he  was  an  old  orphan,  and  had  been 
brought  up  at  St.  Peter's.     He  played  an  important  part 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  69 

in  the  life  of  the  place,  because,  in  a  way,  he  and  his  punt 
formed  the  bridge  connecting  us  with  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

St.  Peter's  stood  on  a  small  island,  under  three  hundred 
acres  in  area,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Myall  Creek,  where  that 
stream  opens  into  the  arm  of  the  sea  called  Burke  Water. 
Our  landing-stage  was,  I  suppose,  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  from  the  Myall  Creek  wharf — the  '  Crick  Wharf,'  as 
it  was  always  called  ;  and  it  was  Tim's  job  to  bridge  that 
gulf  by  means  of  the  punt,  which  he  navigated  with  an 
oar  passed  through  a  hole  in  its  flat  stern.  The  punt  was 
roomy,  but  a  cumbersome  craft. 

The  orphans  ranged  in  age  all  the  way  from  about  three 
years  on  to  the  twenties.  Alf  Loddon  was  twenty-six,  I 
believe  ;  but  he,  though  strong,  and  a  useful  hand  at  the 
plough,  or  with  an  axe,  or  in  the  shafts  of  one  of  our  small 
carts,  was  undoubtedly  half-witted.  We  had  several  big' 
fellows  whose  chins  cried  aloud  for  the  application  of 
razors.  And  none  of  us  was  idle.  Even  little  five-year- 
olds,  like  Teddy  Reeves,  gathered  and  carried  kindling 
wood,  and  weeded  the  garden  ;  while  boys  of  my  own 
age  were  old  and  experienced  farm  hands,  and  had  adopted 
the  heavy,  lurching  stride  of  the  farm  labourer. 

I  suppose  there  never  was  a  4  charitable  '  institution 
conducted  more  emphatically  upon  business  lines  than 
was  St.  Peter's  Orphanage.  The  establishment  included 
a  dairy  farm,  a  poultry  farm,  and  a  market  garden. 
Indeed,  at  that  period,  so  far  as  the  production  of  vege- 
tables went,  we  had  no  white  competitors  within  fifty 
or  a  hundred  miles,  I  think.  As  in  many  other  parts  of 
Australia,  the  inhabitants  of  this  countryside  regarded 
any  form  of  market  gardening  as  Chinaman's  work,  pure 
and  simple.  There  were  any  number  of  settlers  then 
who  never  tasted  vegetables  from  one  year's  end  to 
another,  though  the  ground  about  their  houses  would 
have  grown  every  green  thing  known  to  culinary  art. 
In    the    townships,    too,    nobody    would    4  be   bothered  ' 


70  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

growing  vegetables  ;  but,  unlike  many  of  the  '  cockatoo  ' 
farmers,  the  town  people  were  ready  enough  to  buy  green 
things  ;  and  therein  lay  our  opportunity.  We  rarely 
ate  vegetables  at  St.  Peter's,  but  we  cultivated  them 
assiduously  ;  aid  sixpence  and  eightpence  were  quite 
ordinary  prices  for  our  cabbages  to  fetch. 

So,  too,  with  dairy  products.  We  '  inmates  '  saw  very 
little  of  butter  at  table,  treacle  being  our  great  stand-by. 
(The  sisters  had  butter,  of  course.)  But  St.  Peter's  butter 
stamped  '  S.P.O.'  was  famous  in  the  district,  and  esteemed, 
as  it  was  priced,  highly.  Exactly  the  same  might  be 
said  (both  as  regards  our  share  of  these  commodities  and 
the  public  appreciation  of  them)  of  the  eggs  and  milk 
produced  at  St.  Peter's.  Save  in  the  way  of  occasional 
pilferings  I  never  tasted  milk  at  St.  Peter's  ;  but  between 
us,  the  members  of  the  milking  gang,  of  which  I  was  at  one 
time  chief,  milked  twenty-nine  cows,  morning  and  even- 
ing. I  have  heard  Jim  Meagher,  the  chief  poultry  boy, 
boast  of  a  single  day's  gathering  of  four  hundred  and  sixty- 
eight  eggs  ;  but  eggs,  save  when  stolen,  pricked,  and 
sucked  raw,  never  figured  in  our  bill  of  fare.  At  first 
glance  this  might  appear  unbusinesslike,  but  the  prices 
obtainable  for  these  things  were  good,  as  they  still  are 
and  always  have  been  in  Australia ;  and  the  various 
items  of  our  dietary — treacle,  bread,  oatmeal,  tea,  and 
corned  beef — could  of  course  be  bought  much  more 
cheaply. 

Father  O'Malley  did  most  of  the  purchasing  for  the 
Orphanage,  and  audited  its  accounts,  I  believe.  Sister 
Catharine  and  the  Sister-in-charge,  between  them,  did 
all  the  collecting  throughout  the  countryside  for  the 
Orphanage  funds.  And  I  have  heard  it  said  they  were 
singularly  adept  in  this  work.  I  have  heard  a  Myall 
Creek  farmer  tell  how  the  sisters  '  fairly  got  over '  him, 
though,  as  he  told  the  story,  it  seemed  to  me  that  in 
this  particular  case  he  had  been  the  victor.  They  were 
selling  tickets  at  the  time  for  a  '  social '  in  aid  of  the 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  71 

Orphanage  funds.    The  farmer  flatly  refused  to  purchase, 
saying  he  could  not  attend  the  function. 

4  Ah,  well,  but  ye  '11  buy  a  ticket,  Misther  Jones ; 
sure  ye  will  now,  f'r  the  Orphanage.'  But  Mr.  Jones  was 
obdurate.  Well,  then,  he  would  give  a  few  pounds  of  tea 
and  sugar  ?  But  he  was  right  out  of  both  commodities. 
Some  of  his  fine  eggs,  or,  maybe,  a  young  pig  ?  Mr. 
Jones  continued  in  his  obduracy.  He  was  a  poor  man, 
he  said,  and  could  not  afford  to  give. 

'  May  we  pick  a  basket  av  y'r  beautiful  oranges  thin, 
Misther  Jones  ?  '  They  might  not,  for  he  had  sold  them 
on  the  trees. 

1  Ah,  well,  can  ye  let  us  have  a  whip,  just  a  common 
whip,  Misther  Jones,  for  we  've  come  out  without  one, 
an'  the  horse  is  gettin'  old,  an'  needs  persuasion.'  Mr. 
Jones  would  not  give  a  whip,  as  he  had  but  the  one. 

4  Ah,  thin,  just  a  loan  of  it,  Misther  Jones,  till  this 
evening  ?  '  No,  the  farmer  wanted  to  use  the  whip 
himself. 

4  Well,  well,  thin,  Misther  Jones,  I  see  we  '11  have  to  be 
gettin'  along ;  so  I  '11  wish  ye  good-morning — if  ye  '11 
just  let  us  have  a  cup  o'  milk  each,  for  'tis  powerful 
warm  this  morning,  an'  I  'm  thirsty.'  At  this  the 
farmer  forgot  his  manners,  in  his  wrath,  and  said 
explosively  : 

4  The  milk  's  all  scttin',  an'  the  water  tank  's  near 
empty,  so  I  '11  wish  ye  good-morning,  anyhoxv,  mum  !  ' 
And  this  valiant  man  moved  to  the  door. 

But  I  am  well  assured  that  such  a  defeat  was  a  rare 
thing  in  the  sisters'  experience.  Indeed,  Mr.  Jones 
made  it  his  boast  that  he  was  the  only  man  in  that 
district — 4  Prodesdun  or  Papish  ' — who  ever  received  a 
visit  from  the  Orphanage  sisters  without  paying  for  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  very  generally  admitted  that 
no  farm  in  that  countryside  was  more  profitable  than 
ours  ;  and  that  no  one  turned  out  products  of  higher 
quality,  or  obtained  better  prices.     These  smaller  rural 


72   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

industries — dairying,  market  gardening,  and  the  like — 
demand  much  labour  of  a  more  or  less  unskilled  and 
mechanical  sort,  but  do  not  provide  returns  justifying 
the  payment  of  high  wages.  In  this  regard  St.  Peter's 
was,  of  course,  ideally  situated.  It  paid  no  wages, 
and  employed  twenty  pairs  of  hands  for  every  one  pair 
employed  by  the  average  producer  in  the  district. 

II 

Looking  back  now  upon  the  period  I  spent  as  an  '  in- 
mate '  of  St.  Peter's  Orphanage,  it  seems  a  queer  unreal 
interlude  enough ;  possessing  some  of  the  qualities  of  a 
dream,  including  brevity  and  detachment  from  the  rest 
of  my  life.  But  well  I  know  that  in  the  living  there 
was  nothing  in  the  least  dream-like  about  it ;  and,  so 
far  from  being  brief,  I  know  there  were  times  when  it 
seemed  that  all  the  rest  of  my  life  had  been  but  a  day  or 
so,  by  comparison  with  the  grey,  interminable  vista  of 
the  St.  Peter's  period. 

It  appears  to  me  now  as  something  rather  wonderful 
that  I  ever  should  have  been  able  to  win  clear  of  St. 
Peter's  to  anything  else ;  at  all  events,  to  anything  so 
unlike  St.  Peter's  as  the  most  of  my  life  has  been.  How 
was  it  I  did  not  eventually  succeed  Tim,  the  punt-man, 
or  become  the  hind  of  one  or  other  of  the  small  farmers 
about  the  district,  as  did  most  of  the  Orphanage  lads  ? 
The  scope  life  offered  to  the  orphans  of  St.  Peter's  was 
something  easily  to  be  taken  in  by  the  naked  eye  from 
Myall  Creek.  It  embraced  only  the  simplest  kind  of 
labouring  occupations,  and  included  no  faintest  hint  of 
London,  or  of  the  great  kaleidoscopic  world  lying  between 
Australia  and  England ;  no  sort  of  suggestion  of  the 
infinitely  changeful  and  various  thing  that  life  has  been 
for  me. 

It  is  certain  that  I  cherish  no  sort  of  resentment  or 
malice  where  the  Orphanage  and  its  sisters  are  concerned. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  73 

But  neither  will  I  pretend  to  have  the  slightest  feeling 
of  gratitude  or  benevolence  towards  them.  I  should 
not  wish  to  contribute  to  their  funds,  though  I  possessed 
all  the  wealth  of  the  Americas.  And  I  will  say  that  I 
think  those  responsible  for  the  conduct  of  the  place  were 
singularly  indifferent,  or  blind,  to  the  immense  oppor- 
tunities for  productive  well-doing  which  lay  at  their  feet. 

Here  were  sixty  orphans ;  lads  for  the  most  part 
plastic  as  clay.  The  sisters  were  the  potters.  No  ruling 
sovereign  possesses  a  tithe  of  the  absolute  authority  that 
was  theirs.  They  literally  held  the  powers  of  life  and 
death.  Unquestioned  and  god-like  they  moved  serenely 
to  and  fro  about  the  island  farm,  in  their  floating  black 
draperies,  directing  the  daily  lives  of  their  subjects  by 
means  of  a  nod,  a  gesture  of  the  hand,  a  curt  word  here 
or  there.  They  were  the  only  gods  we  had.  (There  was 
nothing  to  make  us  think  of  them  as  goddesses.)  And, 
so  blind  were  they  to  their  opportunities,  they  offered 
us  nothing  better.  By  which,  I  do  not  mean  that  our 
chapel  was  neglected.  (It  was  not,  though  I  do  not 
think  it  meant  much  more  for  any  of  us  than  the  milk- 
ing, the  wood-chopping,  or  the  window-cleaning.)  But, 
rather,  that  these  capable,  energetic  women  entirely 
ignored  their  unique  opportunities  of  uplifting  us.  It 
was  an  appalling  waste  of  god-like  powers. 

I  could  not  honestly  say  that  I  think  the  sisters  ever 
gave  anything  fine,  or  approximately  fine,  to  one  of  their 
young  slaves.  They  taught  us,  most  efficiently,  to 
work,  to  do  what  Americans  call  *  Chores.'  No  word 
they  ever  let  fall  gave  a  hint  of  any  real  conception  of 
what  life  might  or  should  mean.  I  recall  nothing  in  the 
nature  of  an  inspiration.  Some  of  us,  myself  included, 
possessed  considerable  capacity  for  loving,  for  devotion. 
This  latent  faculty  was  never  drawn  uj>on,  I  think,  by 
any  of  the  sisters.  We  feared  them,  of  course.  We 
even  respected  their  ability,  strength,  and  authority. 
We  certainly  never  loved  them. 


74   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

In  fact,  I  do  not  think  it  was  ever  hinted  to  one  of  us 
that  there  was  anything  beautiful  in  life.  There  were 
wonderful  and  miraculous  things  connected  with  the 
Virgin  and  the  Infant  Christ.  But  these  were  not  of  the 
world  we  knew,  and,  in  any  case,  they  were  matters  of 
which  Father  O'Malley  possessed  the  key.  They  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  farm,  with  our  work,  or  with  us, 
outside  the  chapel.  Heaven  might  be  beautiful.  There 
was  another  place  that  very  certainly  was  horrible. 
Meantime,  there  was  our  own  daily  life,  and  that  was — 
chores.  That  this  should  have  been  so  means,  in  my 
present  opinion,  a  lamentable  waste  of  young  life  and  of 
unique  powers.  I  consider  that  our  young  lives  were 
sterilised  rather  than  developed,  and  that  such  sterilisa- 
tion must  have  meant  permanent  and  irrevocable  loss 
for  every  one  of  the  orphans,  myself  included. 

But  I  would  be  the  last  to  deny  the  very  real  capacity 
and  ability  of  the  sisters  in  their  discharge  of  the  duties 
laid  upon  them.  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  about  it  that  they 
succeeded  to  admiration  in  doing  what  Father  O'Malley 
and  the  powers  behind  him  (whoever  they  may  have 
been)  desired  done.  I  can  well  believe  that  the  Orphanage 
justified  itself  from  a  utilitarian  standpoint.  I  believe 
it  paid  well  as  a  farm.  And  I  do  not  see  how  any  one 
could  have  extracted  more  in  charity  from  the  inhabitants 
of  the  district  (and,  too,  from  the  orphans)  than  the 
sisters  did.  Oh,  I  give  them  all  credit  for  their  competence 
and  efficiency. 

Indeed,  I  find  it  little  less  than  wonderful  to  recall 
the  manner  in  which  the  Sister-in-charge  and  her  three 
assistants  maintained  the  perfect  discipline  of  that 
Orphanage,  with  never  an  appeal  for  the  assistance  of 
masculine  brute  force.  The  Australian-born  boy  is  not 
by  any  means  the  most  docile  or  meek  of  his  species  ; 
and,  occasionally,  a  newly  arrived  orphan  would  assert 
himself  after  the  universal  urchin  fashion.  Such  minor 
outbreaks  were  never  allowed  to  produce  scenes,  however. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  75 

We  had  no  intimidating  executions ;  no  birch-rods  in 
pickle,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  Sister  Agatha  and 
Sister  Catharine  were  given  rather  to  slappings,  pinch- 
ings,  and  the  vicious  tweaking  of  ears.  I  have  seen 
Sister  Agatha  kick  an  orphan's  bare  toes,  or  his  bare 
shin,  with  the  toe  of  her  boot ;  and  at  such  times  she 
could  throw  a  formidable  amount  of  venom  into  two  or 
three  words,  spoken  rather  below  than  above  the  ordinary 
conversational  pitch  of  her  voice.  But  ceremonial 
floggings  were  unknown  at  St.  Peter's.  And  indeed  I 
can  recall  no  breaches  of  discipline  which  seemed  to 
demand  any  such  punishment. 

The  most  usual  form  of  punishment  was  the  docking  of 
a  meal.  We  fed  at  three  long  tables,  and  sat  upon  forms. 
Meals  were  a  fairly  serious  business,  because  we  were 
always  hungry.  A  boy  who  was  reported  to  the  Sister-in- 
charge,  say,  for  some  neglect  of  his  work,  would  have  his 
dinner  stopped.  In  that  case  it  would  be  his  unhappy 
lot  to  stand  with  his  hands  penitentially  crossed  upon  his 
chest,  behind  his  place  at  table,  while  the  rest  of  us  wolfed 
our  meal.  By  a  refinement  which,  at  the  time,  seemed 
to  me  very  uncalled  for,  the  culprit  had  to  say  grace, 
before  and  after  the  meal,  aloud  and  separately  from  the 
rest  of  us. 

There  were  occasions  upon  which  we  were  one  and  all 
found  wanting.  Eggs  had  been  stolen,  work  had  been 
badly  done  ;  something  had  happened  for  which  no  one 
culprit  could  be  singled  out,  and  ail  were  held  to  blame. 
Upon  such  an  occasion  we  were  made  to  lay  the  dinner- 
tables  as  usual,  and  to  wait  upon  the  sisters  at  their  own 
table,  and  for  the  rest  of  an  hour  to  stand  to  attention, 
with  hands  crossed  around  the  long  tables.  Then  we 
cleared  the  tables  and  marched  out  to  work,  each  nursing 
the  vacuum  within  him,  where  dinner  should  have  been, 
and,  presumably,  resolving  to  amend  his  wicked  ways. 

Boys  are,  of  course,  curious  creatures.  I  have  said 
that  wc  were  always  hungry.     I  think  we  were.     And  yet 


76  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

the  staple  of  our  breakfast  (which  never  varied  during  the 
whole  of  my  time  there)  was  never  once  eaten  by  me, 
though  I  was  repeatedly  punished  for  leaving  it.  The 
dish  was  '  skilly,'  or  porridge  of  a  kind,  with  which 
(except  on  the  church's  somewhat  numerous  fast-days) 
we  were  given  treacle.  The  treacle  I  would  lap  up  greedily, 
but  at  the  porridge  my  gorge  rose.  I  simply  could  not 
swallow  it.  Ordinary  porridge  I  had  always  rather  liked, 
but  this  ropy  mess  was  beyond  me  ;  and,  hungry  though 
I  was,  I  counted  myself  fortunate  on  those  mornings  when 
I  was  able  to  go  empty  away  from  the  breakfast-table 
without  punishment  for  leaving  this  detestable  skilly. 
If  Sister  Agatha  or  Sister  Catharine  were  on  duty,  it 
meant  that  I  would  have  at  least  one  spoonful  forced  into 
my  mouth  and  held  there  till  cold  sweat  bedewed  my  face. 
In  addition  there  would  be  pinchings,  slappings,  and  ear- 
tweakings — very  painful,  these  last.  And  sometimes  I 
would  be  reported,  and  docked  of  that  day's  dinner  to 
boot.  But  Sister  Mary  would  more  often  than  not  pass 
me  by  without  a  glance  at  my  bowl,  and  for  that  I  was 
profoundly  grateful.  In  fact,  I  could  almost  have  loved 
that  good  woman,  but  that  she  had  a  physical  affliction 
which  nauseated  me.  Her  breath  caused  me  to  shudder 
whenever  she  approached  me.  She  had  a  mild,  cow-like 
eye,  however,  and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  her  kick  a 
boy. 

Yes,  when  I  look  back  upon  that  queer  chapter  of  my 
life,  I  am  bound  to  admit  that,  however  much  they  may 
have  neglected  opportunities  that  were  open  to  them,  as 
moulders  of  human  clay,  those  four  sisters  did  accomplish 
rather  wonderful  results  in  ruling  St.  Peter's  Orphanage, 
without  any  appeal  to  sheer  force  of  arms.  There  were 
young  men  among  us,  yet  the  sisters'  rule  was  never 
openly  defied.  I  think  the  secret  must  have  had  to  do 
chiefly  with  work  and  food.  We  were  never  idle,  we 
were  always  hungry,  and  we  never  had  any  opportunities 
for  relaxation.     I  never  saw  any  kind  of  game  played 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  77 

at  the  Orphanage  ;  and  on  Sundays  devotions  of  one  kind 
or  another  were  made  to  fill  all  intervals  between  the 
different  necessary  pieces  of  work,  such  as  milking,  feeding 
stock,  cleaning,  and  so  forth. 

We  began  the  day  at  five  o'clock  in  the  summer,  and 
six  in  the  winter,  and  by  eight  at  night  all  lights  were  out. 
We  had  lessons  every  day ;  and  there,  oddly  enough,  in 
school,  the  cane  was  adjudged  necessary,  as  an  engine  of 
discipline,  and  used  rather  freely  on  our  hands — hands, 
by  the  way,  which  were  apt  at  any  time  to  be  a  good  deal 
chipped  and  scratched,  and  otherwise  knocked  about  by 
our  outdoor  work.  So  far  as  I  remember  our  schooling 
was  of  the  most  primitive  sort,  and  confined  to  reading 
aloud,  writing  from  dictation,  and  experimenting  with 
the  first  four  rules  of  arithmetic.  History  we  did  not 
touch,  but  we  had  to  memorise  the  names  of  certain 
continents,  capitals,  and  rivers,  I  remember. 

All  this  ought  to  have  been  the  merest  child's  play  for 
me  ;  it  certainly  was  a  childish  form  of  study.  But  I 
did  not  appear  to  pick  up  the  trick  of  it,  and  I  remember 
being  told  pretty  frequently  to  '  Hold  out  your  hand, 
Nicholas  !  '  I  had  a  clumsy  knack  of  injuring  my  finger- 
tips, and  getting  splinters  into  my  hands,  in  the  course  of 
outdoor  work.  The  splinters  produced  little  gatherings, 
and  I  dare  say  this  made  penmanship  awkward.  I  know 
it  gave  added  terrors  to  the  canings,  and,  too,  I  thought 
it  gave  added  zest  to  Sister  Agatha's  use  of  that  instru- 
ment in  my  case.  Unfortunately  for  me  Sister  Agatha, 
and  not  the  mild-cyed  Sister  Mary,  was  the  school- 
mistress. 

It  may  be,  of  course,  that  I  lay  undue  stress  upon  the 
painful  or  unpleasant  features  of  our  life  at  the  Orphanage, 
because  I  was  unhappy  there,  and  detested  the  place. 
But  certainly  if  I  could  recall  any  brighter  aspects  of  the 
life  there  I  would  set  them  down.  I  do  not  think  there 
were  any  brighter  aspects  for  me,  at  all  events.  I  not 
only  had  no  pride  in  myself  here  ;  I  took  shame  in  my  lot. 


78  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

On  the  first  Sunday  in  each  month  visitors  were  ad- 
mitted. Any  one  at  all  could  come,  and  many  local  folk 
did  come.  They  made  it  a  kind  of  excursion.  I  was  glad 
that  our  devotions  kept  us  a  good  deal  out  of  the  visitors' 
way,  because,  especially  at  first,  I  had  a  fear  of  recognis- 
ing among  them  some  one  of  the  handful  of  people  in 
Australia  whom  I  might  be  said  to  have  known — fellow- 
passengers  by  the  Ariadne.  The  thought  of  being  recog- 
nised as  an  '  inmate  '  by  Nelly  Fane  was  dreadful  to  me  ; 
and  even  more,  I  fancy,  I  dreaded  the  mere  idea  of  being 
seen  by  Fred-without-a-surname.  I  pictured  him  grin- 
ning as  he  said  :  '  Hallo  !  you  in  this  place  ?  You  an 
orphan,  then  ?  '  I  think  I  should  have  slain  him  with 
my  wood-chopping  axe. 

On  these  visitors'  days  we  all  wore  boots  and  clothes 
which  were  never  seen  at  other  times.  I  hated  mine  most 
virulently,  because  they  were  not  mine,  but  had  been 
worn  by  some  other  boy  before  they  came  to  me.  It  was 
never  given  to  me  to  learn  what  became  of  the  ample  store 
of  clothing  I  had  on  board  the  Livorno.  The  sisters  were 
exceedingly  thorough  in  detail.  On  the  mornings  of  these 
visitors'  Sundays,  before  going  out  to  work,  we  '  dressed  ' 
our  beds.  That  is  to  say  we  were  given  sheets,  and  made 
to  arrange  them  neatly  upon  our  beds.  Before  retiring  at 
night  we  had  to  remove  these  sheets  and  refold  them  with 
exact  care,  under  the  sister's  watchful  eyes,  so  that  they 
might  be  fresh  and  uncreased  for  next  visitors'  Sunday. 
We  never  saw  them  at  any  other  times.  Our  boots  really 
were  rather  a  trial.  Running  about  barefoot  all  day 
makes  the  feet  swell  and  spread.  It  hardens  them,  cer- 
tainly, but  it  makes  the  use  of  boots,  and  especially  of 
hard,  ill-fitting  boots,  abominably  painful. 

And  with  it  all,  having  said  that  I  detested  the  place 
and  was  unhappy  during  all  my  time  there,  how  is  it  I 
cannot  leave  the  matter  at  that  ?  For  I  cannot.  I  do 
not  feel  that  I  have  truly  and  fully  stated  the  case.  It  is 
not  merely  that  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  follow  my 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  79 

life  there  in  detail.  No  such  exhaustive  and  exhausting 
record  is  needed.  But  I  do  desire  to  set  down  here  the 
essential  facts  of  each  phase  in  my  life. 

I  have  referred  already  to  the  precociously  developed 
trick  I  had  of  savouring  life  as  a  spectator,  of  observing 
myself  as  a  figure  in  an  illustrated  romance; — probably 
the  hero.  Now,  as  I  am  certain  this  habit  was  not  entirely 
dropped  during  my  life  at  St.  Peter's,  I  think  one  must 
argue  that  I  cannot  have  been  entirely  and  uniformly 
unhappy  there.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  I  was  not,  because  I 
can  distinctly  remember  luxuriating  in  my  sadness.  I 
can  remember  translating  it  into  unspoken  words,  the 
while  my  head  was  cushioned  in  the  flank  of  a  cow  at 
milking  time,  describing  myself  and  my  forlorn  estate 
as  an  orphan  and  an  '  inmate  '  to  myself.  And,  without 
doubt,  I  derived  satisfaction  from  that.  I  can  recall 
picturesquely  vivid  contrasts  drawn  in  my  mind  between 
Master  Nicholas  Frcydon,  as  the  playmate  of  Nelly  Fane 
on  the  Ariadne,  and  the  son  of  the  distinguished-looking 
Mr.  Freydon  whom  every  one  admired,  and  as  the  4  inmate ' 
of  St.  Peter's,  trudging  to  and  fro  among  the  other 
orphans,  with  corns  on  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  bruises 
and  scratches  on  his  bare  legs  and  feet. 

And  then  when  visitors  were  about :  '  If  they  only 
knew,' 4  If  they  could  have  seen,' '  If  I  were  to  tell  them ' — 
such  phrases  formed  the  beginning  of  many  thoughts 
in  my  mind.  I  can  remember  endeavouring  to  mould  my 
expression  upon  such  occasions  to  fit  the  part  I  consciously 
played  ;  to  adopt  the  look  I  thought  proper  to  the  dis- 
inherited aristocrat,  the  gently-nurtured  child  now  out- 
cast in  the  world,  the  orphan.  Yes,  I  distinctly  remember, 
when  a  visitor  of  any  parts  at  all  was  in  sight,  composing 
my  features  and  attitude  to  suit  the  orphan's  part,  as 
distinguished  from  that  of  the  mere  typical  4  inmate,' 
who,  incidentally,  was  an  orphan  too.  I  found  secret 
consolation  in  the  conception  that  however  much  I 
might  be  in   St.  Peter's  Orphanage,   I   would  never  be 


80   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

wholly  of  it — a  real  '  inmate.'  I  remember,  as  I  thought 
not  unskilfully,  scheming  to  arouse  Sister  Mary's  interest  in 
me,  as  I  had  aroused  the  interest  of  other  people  in  myself 
on  the  Ariadne  and  elsewhere,  and  only  relinquishing 
my  pursuit  when  baffled,  upon  contact,  by  the  poor 
sister's  physical  infirmity  before-mentioned.  I  am  bound 
to  say  that  she  made  less  response  to  my  overtures  than 
that  made  by  the  cows  I  milked,  who  really  did  show  some 
mild,  bovine  preference  for  me. 

But  there  it  is.  In  view  of  these  things  I  cannot  have 
been  wholly  unhappy,  for  I  remained  a  keenly  interested 
observer  of  life,  and  of  my  own  meanderings  on  its  stage. 
But  I  will  say  that  I  liked  St.  Peter's  less  than  any  other 
place  I  had  known,  and  that  mentally,  morally,  emotion- 
ally, and  spiritually,  as  well  as  physically,  I  was  rather 
starved  there.  The  life  of  the  place  did  arrest  my 
development  in  all  ways,  I  think,  and  it  may  be  that  I 
have  suffered  always,  to  some  extent,  from  that  period 
of  insufficient  nutrition  of  mind  and  body. 

Ill 

The  custom  of  St.  Peter's  Orphanage  was  to  allow 
farmers  and  local  residents  generally  to  choose  an  orphan, 
as  they  might  pick  out  a  heifer  or  a  colt  from  a  stockyard, 
and  take  him  away  for  good — or  ill.  I  believe  the  only 
stipulation  was  that  the  orphan  could  not  in  any  case 
be  returned  to  St.  Peter's.  If  the  selector  found  him  to 
be  a  damaged  or  incomplete  orphan,  that  was  the  selector's 
own  affair,  and  he  had  to  put  up  with  his  bargain  as 
best  he  might.  The  person  who  chose  an  orphan  in  this 
way  became  responsible  for  the  boy's  maintenance  while 
boyhood  lasted,  and  I  believe  it  was  not  customary  to 
send  out  lads  under  the  age  of  ten  or  twelve  years.  After 
a  time  the  people  who  took  these  lads  into  their  service 
were,  theoretically,  supposed  to  allow  them  some  small 
wage,  in  addition  to  providing  them  with  a  home. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  81 

It  was  rather  a  blow  to  my  self-esteem,  I  remember, 
to  see  my  companions  being  removed  from  the  institution 
one  by  one  as  time  ran  on,  and  to  note  that  nobody 
appeared  to  want  me.  I  may  have  been  somewhat  less 
sturdy  than  the  average  run  of  '  inmates,'  but  I  think 
we  were  all  on  the  spare  and  lean  side.  It  is  possible, 
however,  that  in  view  of  my  father's  legacy  to  St.  Peter's, 
the  authorities  felt  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  keep  me. 
The  departure  of  a  boy  always  had  an  unsettling  effect 
upon  me ;  and  when,  as  happened  now  and  again,  an 
ex-inmate  paid  us  a  visit  on  a  Sunday,  possibly  with 
members  of  the  family  with  whom  he  worked,  I  was 
filled  with  yearning  interest  in  the  life  of  the  world  out- 
side our  island  farm  and  workshop. 

But  these  yearnings  of  mine  were  quite  vague  ;  mere 
amorphous  emanations  of  the  mind,  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  nostalgia,  and  giving  birth  to  nothing  in  the 
shape  of  plans,  nor  even  of  definite  desires.  Then, 
suddenly,  this  vague  uneasiness  became  the  dominant 
factor  in  my  daily  life,  as  the  result  of  one  of  those 
apparently  haphazard  chances  upon  which  human 
progress  and  development  so  often  seem  to  pivot. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  a  visitors'  Sunday,  as  I  was 
making  my  way  down  to  the  milking-yard  with  a  pail  on 
oithcr  arm,  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  a  man 
who  was  leaning  contemplatively  over  the  slip-rails  of  the 
yard.  The  sight  of  those  shoulders  sent  a  thrill  right 
through  me ;  it  touched  the  marrow  of  my  spine.  I, 
who  had  thought  myself  the  most  forlorn  and  friendless 
of  orphans ;  I  had  a  friend,  and  he  was  here  before  me. 
There  was  no  need  to  sec  his  face.     I  knew  those  shoulders. 

4  Ted  !  '  I  cried.  And  positively  I  had  to  exercise 
deliberate  self-restraint  to  prevent  myself  from  rushing 
at  our  Livorno  friend  and  factotum,  and  flinging  my 
arms  about  him,  as  in  infantile  days  I  had  been  wont  to 
make  embracing  leaps  at  Amelia  from  the  kitchen  table 
of  the  house  off  Russell  Square, 

r 


82  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

*  God  spare  me  days !  Is  it  you,  then,  chum  ? ' 
exclaimed  Ted,  as  he  swung  round  on  his  high  heels. 
(In  those  days  the  Sunday  rig  of  men  like  Ted  Reilly 
comprised  much-polished,  pointed-toe,  elastic-side  boots 
with  very  high  heels,  and  voluminously  '  bell-bottomed  ' 
trousers.)  I  rattled  questions  at  him,  as  peas  from  a 
pea-shooter ;  and  when  I  had  laid  aside  my  buckets  he 
pumped  away  at  my  right  arm,  as  though  providing 
water  to  put  a  fire  out. 

It  seemed  he  had  only  that  week  returned  to  the 
district,  after  a  long  spell  of  wandering  and  desultory 
working  in  southern  Queensland.  No,  he  had  not  had 
time  yet  to  go  out  to  the  Livorno,  and  he  had  not  heard 
of  my  father's  death — '  Rest  his  soul  for  as  good  an' 
kindly  a  gentleman  as  ever  walked  !  '  And  so — '  Spare 
me  days  ! ' — I  was  an  orphan  at  St.  Peter's  !  The  queer 
thing  it  was  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  be  wandering 
that  way,  an'  all,  having  nothing  else  to  do  to  pass  the 
time,  like  !  How  I  blessed  the  casual  ways  of  the  man, 
the  marked  absence  of  '  Systum '  in  his  character,  that  led 
him  to  make  such  excursions  !  He  squatted  beside  me 
on  his  heels,  whilst  I,  fearing  admonition  from  above, 
got  to  work  with  my  cows,  and  saw  the  rest  of  the  milking 
gang  started. 

Passionate  disappointment  swept  across  my  mind 
when  I  learned  that  he  had  been  several  hours  on  the 
island  before  I  saw  him,  and  that  it  wanted  now  but  ten 
minutes  to  five  o'clock,  the  hour  at  which  the  punt  made 
its  last  trip  with  visitors.  And  in  almost  the  same 
moment  joy  shook  and  thrilled  me  as  I  realised  the 
romantic  hazard  of  our  meeting  at  all,  which  was  accen- 
tuated really  by  the  narrowness  of  our  margin  of  time. 
A  matter  of  minutes  and  he  would  be  gone.  A  matter 
of  minutes  and  I  should  never  have  seen  him  at  all.  But 
that  could  not  have  been.  I  refused  to  contemplate  a 
life  at  St.  Peter's  in  which  this  inestimable  amelioration 
(now   nearly   five   minutes   old)   played   no   part.     The 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  83 

hopeless  emptiness  of  life  at  the  Orphanage  without  a 
meeting  with  Ted  was  something  altogether  too  harrowing 
to  be  dwelt  upon.     It  could  not  have  been  borne. 

4  You  '11  be  here  first  thing  next  visitors'  Sunday,  Ted — 
first  thing  ?  '  I  charged  him,  as  he  rose  in  response  to 
the  puntman's  bell.  *  I  couldn't  stand  it  if  you  didn't 
come,  Ted.' 

'  Oh,  I  '11  come,  right  enough,  chum.  But  that 's  a 
month.     Why,  spare  me  days,  surely  I ' 

4  You  '11  have  to  go,  Ted.  That 's  his  last  ring.  Sister 
Agatha  's  looking.  Don't  seem  to  take  much  notice  o' 
me,  Ted,  or  she  might —  Oh,  good-bye,  Ted  !  Don't 
seem  to  be  noticing.     Good-bye,  good-bye  !  ' 

My  head  was  back  in  the  cow's  flank  now,  and  very 
hot  tears  were  running  down  my  cheeks  and  into  the 
milk-pail.  My  lip  was  cut  under  my  front  teeth, 
and — '  Oh,  Ted,  first  thing  in  the  morning — don't  forget 
the  Sunday,'  I  implored,  as  he  passed  away,  drawing 
one  hand  caressingly  across  my  shoulder  as  he  went. 

In  a  hazy,  golden  dream  I  finished  my  milking,  stag- 
gering and  swaying  up  to  the  dairy  under  my  two  brim- 
ming pails,  and  turned  to  the  remaining  tasks  of  the 
evening,  longing  for  bed-time  and  liberty  to  review  my 
amazing  good  fortune  in  privacy ;  thirsting  for  it,  as  a 
tippler  for  his  liquor.  I  dared  not  think  about  it  at 
all  before  bed-time.  In  some  recondite  way  it  seemed 
that  would  have  been  indecent,  an  exposure  of  my 
new  treasure  to  the  vulgar  gaze.  Now,  it  was  securely 
locked  away  inside  me,  absolutely  hidden.  And  there  it 
must  remain  until,  lights  being  doused,  I  could  draw 
it  out  under  the  friendly  cover  of  my  coarse  bed-clothes 
(after  visiting-day  sheets  had  been  removed)  and 
voluptuously  abandon  myself  to  it.  Meantime,  I  moved 
among  my  fellows  as  one  having  possession  of  a  talisman 
which  raised  him  far  above  the  cares  and  preoccupations 
of  the  common  herd.  I  even  looked  forward  with 
pleasure  to  the  next  day,  to  Monday  !     I  should  have  no 


84   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

breakfast.  Sister  Agatha  would  be  on  duty.  I  should 
be  pestered,  and  probably  robbed  of  dinner,  too.  But 
what  of  that  ?  The  coming  of  that  cheerless  and  hungry 
Monday  would  carry  me  forward  one  whole  day  toward 
the  next  visitors'  Sunday,  and — Ted. 

I  had  not  begun  yet  to  consider  in  any  way  the  question 
of  how  seeing  Ted  could  help  me.  Enough  for  me  that 
I  had  seen  him  ;  that  I  had  a  friend  ;  and  that  I  should 
see  him  again.  Indeed,  even  if  I  had  had  no  hope  of 
seeing  him  again,  I  still  should  have  been  thrilled  through 
and  through  by  the  delicious  kindliness,  the  romantic 
interest  of  the  thought  that,  out  there  in  the  world  beyond 
Myall  Creek,  I  had  a  friend  ;  a  free  and  powerful  man, 
moving  about  independently  among  the  citizens  of  the 
great  world,  in  which  Sister  Agatha  was  a  mere  nobody  ; 
in  which  all  sorts  of  delightful  things  continually  hap- 
pened, in  which  task  work  was  no  more  than  one  incident 
in  a  daily  round  compact  of  other  interests,  hazards, 
meetings,  and — and  of  freedom. 

It  was  extraordinary  the  manner  in  which  ten  minutes 
in  the  society  of  a  man,  who  would  have  been  adjudged 
by  many  most  uninspiring,  had  transformed  me.  It 
seemed  the  mere  sight  of  this  simple  bushman,  in  his 
*  bell-bottomed  '  Sunday  trousers,  had  lifted  me  up  from 
a  slough  of  hopeless  inertia  to  a  plane  upon  which  life 
was  a  master  musician,  and  all  my  veins  the  strings  from 
which  he  drew  his  magic  melodies. 


IV 

A  week  passed,  and  brought  us  to  another  Sunday.  On 
this  morning  I  stepped  out  of  bed  into  the  dimness  of  the 
dawn  light,  full  of  elation. 

*  It 's  only  seven  weeks  now  to  next  visitors'  day.  In 
seven  weeks  I  shall  see  Ted  again.  Seven  times  seven 
days — why,  it 's  nothing,  really,'  I  told  myself. 

By  this  time  I  had  devised  a  plan  for  helping  Time  on 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  85 

his  way.  It  hardly  commends  itself  to  my  mature  judg- 
ment, but  great  satisfaction  was  derived  from  it  at  the 
time.  It  consisted  merely  of  telling  myself  in  so  many 
words  that  a  month  comprised  eight  weeks.  Thus, 
ostensibly,  I  had  seven  weeks  to  wait.  But  my  secret 
self  knew  that  the  reality  was  incredibly  better  than  that. 
Next  Sunday,  outwardly,  I  should  have  only  six  weeks  to 
wait,  the  following  Sunday  only  five.  And  then,  a  week 
later,  with  only  a  paltry  four  weeks  to  wait,  my  secret 
self  would  be  thrilling  with  the  knowledge  that  actually 
the  day  itself  had  come,  and  only  an  hour  or  so  divided 
me  from  Ted.  Childish,  perhaps,  but  it  comforted  me 
greatly  ;  and,  to  some  extent,  I  have  indulged  the  prac- 
tice through  life.  With  a  mile  to  walk  when  tired,  I  have 
caught  myself,  even  quite  late  in  life,  comforting  myself 
with  the  absurd  assurance  that  another  '  couple  of  miles  ' 
would  bring  me  to  my  destination  !  To  the  naturally 
sanguine  temperament  this  particular  folly  would  be 
impossible,  though  its  antithesis  is  pretty  frequently 
indulged  in,  I  fancy. 

And  so  it  was  while  going  about  my  various  duties, 
nursing  the  pretence  that  in  seven  more  weeks  I  should 
see  my  friend  again,  that  I  came  face  to  face  with  the 
man  himself ;  then,  after  no  more  than  one  little  week 
of  waiting,  and  when  no  visitors  at  all  were  due.  I 
gasped.  Ted  grinned  cordially.  Sister  Mary  was  on 
duty.  Ted  showed  her  a  note  from  Father  O'Malley,  and 
she  nodded  amiably.  Thrice  blessed  goddess  !  Her  fat, 
white  face  took  on  angelic  qualities  in  my  eyes.  One 
little  movement  of  her  hooded  head,  and  I  was  wafted 
from  purgatory,  not  into  heaven,  but  into  a  place  which 
seemed  to  me  more  attractive,  into  the  freedom  of  the 
outside  world — Ted's  world.  Not  that  I  was  permitted 
to  leave  the  island,  but,  until  the  time  for  evening  milking, 
I  was  allowed  to  walk  about  the  farm  and  talk  at  ease 
with  Ted.  By  a  further  miracle  of  the  goddess's  com- 
plaisance I  was  permitted  to  ignore  the  Orphanage  dinner 


86   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

that  day,  and  intoxicate  myself  with  Ted  upon  sandwiches 
and  cakes  and  ginger-beer.  That  was  a  banquet,  if  you 
like! 

It  seemed  that  Father  O'Malley  was  quite  well  disposed 
toward  Ted,  and  had  even  allowed  him  to  make  a  little 
contribution  (which  he  could  ill  spare)  to  the  Orphanage 
funds.  With  what  seemed  to  me  transcendent  audacity 
Ted  had  actually  tried  to  adopt  me,  to  take  me  into  his 
service,  as  neighbouring  farmers  took  other  orphans 
from  St.  Peter's.  This  had  been  firmly  but  quite  pleas- 
antly declined ;  but  Ted  had  been  given  permission  to 
come  and  see  me  whenever  he  liked,  on  Sundays — upon 
any  Sunday.  I  could  have  hugged  the  man.  His  achieve- 
ment seemed  to  me  little  short  of  miraculous.  I  figured 
Ted  manipulating  threads  by  which  nations  are  governed. 
To  be  able  to  bend  to  one's  will  august  administrators, 
people  like  Father  O'Malley  !  Truly,  the  world  outside 
St.  Peter's  was  a  wondrous  place,  and  the  life  of  its  free 
citizens  a  thing  most  delectable. 

We  talked,  but  how  we  did  talk,  all  through  that  sunny, 
windy  Sunday  !  (A  bright,  dry  westerly  had  been  blow- 
ing for  several  days.)  I  gathered  that  Ted  was  in  his 
customary  condition  of  impecuniosity,  and  that,  much 
against  his  inclination,  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to 
take  a  job  somewhere  before  many  days  had  passed  ;  or 
else — and  I  saw,  with  a  pang  of  desolate  regret,  that  his 
own  feeling  favoured  the  alternative — to  pack  his  swag 
and  be  off  '  on  the  wallaby  ' ;  on  the  tramp,  that  is,  put- 
ting in  an  occasional  day's  work,  where  this  might  offer, 
and  sleeping  in  the  bush.  He  was  a  born  nomad.  Even 
I  had  realised  this.  And  he  liked  no  other  life  so  well  as 
that  of  the  '  traveller,'  which,  in  Australia,  does  not  mean 
either  a  bagman  or  a  tourist,  but  rather  one  who  strolls 
through  life  carrying  all  his  belongings  on  his  back,  work- 
ing but  very  occasionally,  and  camping  in  a  fresh  spot 
every  night. 

It  required  no  great  penetration  upon  Ted's  part  to 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  87 

see  that  I  was  weary  of  St.  Peter's.  (My  first  day  at  the 
Orphanage  had  brought  me  to  that  stage.) 

4  Look  here,  mate,'  he  said,  late  in  the  afternoon.  *  I  've 
got  pretty  near  thirty  bob  left,  and  a  real  good  swag. 
Why  not  come  with  me,  an'  we  '11  swag  it  outer  this  into 
Queensland  ?  ' 

I  drew  a  quick  breath.  It  was  an  attractive  offer  for  a 
boy  in  my  position.  But  even  then  there  was  more  of 
prudence  and  foresight  in  me,  or  possibly  less  of  reckless 
courage  and  less  of  the  born  nomad,  than  Ted  had. 

'  But  how  could  I  get  away  ?  ' 

1  You  can  swim,'  said  Ted.  *  I  'd  be  waiting  for  ye  at 
the  wharf.     We  'd  be  outer  reach  by  daybreak.' 

'  And  then,  Ted,  how  should  we  live  ?  '  My  superior 
prudence  questioned  him.  I  take  it  the  difference  in  our 
upbringing  and  tradition  spoke  here. 

4  Live  I  why,  how  does  any  one  live  on  the  wallaby  ? 
It 's  never  hard  to  get  a  day's  work,  if  ye  want  a  few  bob. 
Up  in  the  station  country  they  never  refuse  a  man  rations, 
anyway ;  it 's  in  the  town  the  trouble  is.  I  've  never 
gone  short,  travelling.' 

4 1  don't  think  I  'd  like  begging  for  meals,  Ted,'  I  said 
musingly.  And  in  a  moment  I  was  wishing  with  all  my 
heart  I  could  withdraw  the  words.  It  seemed  that,  for 
the  first  time  in  all  our  acquaintance,  I  had  hurt  and 
offended  this  simple,  good-hearted  fellow. 

'  Beggin',  is  it  ?  '  he  cried,  very  visibly  ruffled.  '  I  'd 
be  sorry  to  ask  ye  to,  for  it 's  what  I  've  never  done  in  me 
life,  an'  never  would.  Would  ye  call  a  man  a  beggar  for 
takin'  a  ration  or  a  bitter  'baccy  from  a  station  store  ? 
Why,  doesn't  every  traveller  do  the  same  ?  An',  for  that 
matter,  can't  a  man  always  put  in  a  day's  work,  gettin' 
firewood  or  what  not,  if  he  's  a  mind  to  ?  Ye  needn't  fear 
Ted  Rcilly  '11  ever  come  to  beggin'  !  ' 

In  my  eager  anxiety  to  placate  my  only  friend  I  almost 
accepted  his  offer.  But  not  quite.  Some  little  inherited 
difference  held  me  back,   perhaps.     I   wonder !     At  all 


88   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

events,  the  thing  was  dropped  between  us  for  the  time ; 
and,  before  he  left,  Ted  promised  he  would  tackle  a  bit  of 
work  a  Myall  Creek  farmer  had  offered  him — to  clear  a 
bush  paddock  of  burrajong  fern,  which  had  poisoned  some 
cattle.  Thus,  he  would  be  able  to  come  and  see  me  again 
on  the  following  Sunday.  On  that  we  parted  ;  and, 
before  I  was  half  way  through  my  milking,  fear  and  regret 
oppressed  me  as  with  a  physical  nausea  ;  fear  that  I 
might  have  lost  my  only  friend,  regret  that  I  had  not 
accepted  his  offer,  and  so  won  to  freedom  and  the  big 
world  outside  St.  Peter's. 

The  night  that  followed  was  one  of  the  most  unhappy 
spent  by  me  at  St.  Peter's.  My  prudence  appeared  to 
me  the  merest  poltroonery,  my  remark  about  '  begging ' 
the  most  finicking  absurdity,  my  failure  to  accept  Ted's 
offer  the  most  reckless  and  offensive  stupidity.  Evi- 
dently I  was  unworthy  of  any  better  lot  than  I  had.  I 
should  live  and  die  an  '  inmate  '  and  a  drudge.  I  deserved 
nothing  else.  In  short,  I  was  a  very  despicable  lad,  had 
probably  lost  the  only  friend  I  should  ever  have,  and, 
certainly,  I  was  very  miserable. 

Monday  brought  some  softening  (helped  by  the  fact 
that  Sister  Mary  was  on  duty  at  breakfast-time,  so  that 
I  escaped  the  addition  of  punishment  to  hunger),  and, 
as  the  week  wore  slowly  by,  hope  rose  in  my  breast  once 
more,  and  with  it  a  return  of  what  I  now  regard  as  the 
common-sense  prescience  which  made  me  hesitate  to 
adopt  a  swagman's  life.  I  could  not  honestly  say  that 
I  had  any  definite  ideas  as  to  another  and  more  reputable 
sort  of  occupation  or  career.  As  yet,  I  had  not.  But  I 
did  vaguely  feel  that  there  would  be  derogation  in  becom- 
ing what  my  father  would  have  called  a  '  tramp.' 

My  father's  memory,  the  question  of  what  he  would 
have  thought  of  it,  affected  my  attitude  materially. 
He  had  accepted  it  as  axiomatic,  I  thought,  that  his  son 
must  be  a  gentleman.  My  present  lot  as  an  '  inmate  ' 
of  St.  Peter's  hardly  seemed  to  fit  the  axiom,  somehow ; 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  89 

and  Ted,  whatever  I  might  think  or  say  about  '  beggin' ' 
or  the  like,  was  all  the  friend  I  had  or  seemed  likely  to 
have,  and  a  really  good  fellow  at  that.  But  withal  a 
certain  stubbornly  resistant  quality  in  me  asserted  that 
there  would  be  a  downward  step  for  me,  though  not  for 
Ted,  or  for  any  of  my  fellow  orphans,  in  taking  to  the 
road  ;  that  the  step  might  prove  irrevocable,  and  that 
I  ought  not  to  take  it.  I  dare  say  there  was  something  of 
the  snob  in  me.  Anyhow,  that  was  how  I  felt  about  it. 
Also,  I  remember  deriving  a  certain  comically  stern 
sort  of  satisfaction  from  contemplation  of  the  spectacle 
of  myself,  alone,  unaided,  declining  to  stoop,  even  though 
stooping  should  bring  me  freedom  from  the  Orphanage  ! 
Yes,  there  was  a  certain  egotistical  satisfaction  in  that 
thought. 

Ted  came  to  sec  me  again  on  the  next  Sunday,  but  our 
day  was  far  less  cheery  than  its  predecessor  had  been. 
We  were  good  friends  still,  but  there  was  a  subtle  con- 
straint between  us,  as  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  Ted 
did  not  again  mention  the  suggestion  of  my  taking  to 
the  road  with  him.  Also,  Ted  was  for  the  moment  a 
wage-earner,  working  during  fixed  and  regular  hours 
for  an  employer ;  and  I  knew  he  hated  that.  In  such 
case  he  felt  as  one  of  the  mountain-bred  brumbies 
(wild  horses)  of  that  countryside  might  be  supposed 
to  feel,  when  caught,  branded,  and  forced  between 
shafts. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Ted's  downcast  constraint 
was  much  more  pronounced,  and  I  saw  plainly  that  my 
Sabbath  visitor  was  on  the  eve  of  a  breakaway.  The 
name  of  the  farmer  for  whom  he  had  been  working  was 
Mannasseh  Ford,  and,  having  such  a  name,  the  man 
was  always  spoken  of  in  just  that  way. 

*  I  pretty  near  bruk  my  back  finishing  Mannasseh  Ford's 
paddick  last  night,'  explained  Ted  moodily.  '  There 
was  three  days'  fair  work  left  in  it  when  I  got  there  in  the 
morning.     But   I   meant  gettin'   shut  of  it,   an'   I   did. 


90  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Mannasseh  Ford  opened  his  eyes  pretty  wide  when  I 
called  up  for  me  money  las'  night,  an'  he  looked  over  the 
paddick.  Wanted  to  take  me  on  regler,  he  did  ;  pounder 
week  an'  all  found,  he  said.  I  thanked  him  kindly,  him 
an'  his  pounder  week !  Well,  he  said  he  'd  make  it 
twenty-five  shillin',  an'  I  thanked  him  for  that.' 

Thanks  clearly  meant  refusal  with  Ted,  and  I  confess 
he  rose  higher  in  my  esteem  somehow,  for  the  fact  that 
he  could  actually  refuse  what  to  me  seemed  like  wealth. 
I  recalled  the  fact  that  my  father  had  paid  Ted  exactly 
half  this  amount,  and  had  found  him  quite  willing  to 
stay  with  us  for  half  that  again,  or  even  for  occasional 
tobacco  money.  Perhaps  there  was  a  mercenary  vein 
in  me  at  the  time.  I  think  it  likely.  The  talk  of  my 
fellow  orphans  was  largely  of  wages,  and  materialism 
dominated  the  atmosphere  in  which  I  lived.  I  know 
this  refusal  of  twenty-five  shillings  a  week  and  '  all  found  ' 
struck  me  as  tolerably  reckless  ;  splendid,  in  a  way,  but 
somewhat  foolhardy,  and  I  hinted  as  much  to  Ted. 

*  Och,  bother  him  an'  his  twenty-five  shillin'  !  '  said 
Ted.  '  Just  because  I  cleared  his  old  paddick,  he  thinks 
I  'm  a  workin'  bullick.  He  offered  me  thirty  shillin' 
after,  if  ye  come  to  that ;  an'  I  told  him  he  hadn't  money 
enough  in  the  bank  to  keep  me.     Neither  has  he.' 

'  But,  Ted,'  I  urged,  '  why  not  ?  It 's  good  money, 
and  you  've  got  to  work  somewhere.' 

'Aye,'  said  Ted,  his  constraint  lifting  for  a  moment 
to  admit  the  right  vagabondish  twinkle  into  his  blue 
eyes.  '  Somewhere !  An'  sometimes.  But  not  there, 
mate,  an'  not  all  the  time,  thank  ye ;  not  me.  It 's  all 
right  for  Mannasseh  Ford  ;  but,  spare  me  days,  I  'd 
sooner  be  in  me  grave.' 

I  pondered  this  for  a  time,  while  a  voice  within  me 
kept  on  repeating  with  sickening  certainty  :  '  He  's  going 
away  ;  he  's  going  away.  You  've  lost  your  friend  ; 
you  've  lost  your  friend.'  And  then,  as  one  thrusts  a 
foot  into  cold  water  before  taking  a  plunge  :  '  Well,  then, 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  91 

what  shall  you  do,  Ted  ?  '  I  asked  him.  But,  for  the 
moment,  I  was  not  to  have  the  plunge. 

1  Oh,  if  ye  come  to  that,'  he  said,  weakly  smiling, 
'  I  've  money  in  hand,  an'  to  spare.  Look  at  the  wealth 
o'  me.'  And  he  drew  out  for  my  edification  a  little 
bundle  of  greasy  one -pound  notes,  which,  for  me, 
certainly  had  a  very  substantial  look.  I  knew  instinc- 
tively that  my  friend  wanted  me  to  help  him  out  by 
pursuing  the  inquiry  ;  but  for  the  time  I  shirked  it, 
and  we  talked  of  other  things.  Later  in  the  day  I 
returned  to  it,  as  a  moth  to  a  candle,  undeterred,  partly 
impelled  thereto,  in  fact,  by  the  assured  foreknowledge 
that  the  process  would  hurt. 

'  But  what  will  you  do,  Ted,  now  you  've  given  up 
Mannasseh  Ford  ?  Will  you  take  another  job  round  the 
Creek  here,  or ' 

I  paused,  scanning  my  only  friend's  face,  and  seeing 
my  loss  of  him  writ  plainly  in  his  downcast  eyes  and 
half -shamed  expression.  (I  am  not  sure  but  what  there 
may  have  been  more  of  the  human  boy,  the  child,  in 
Ted,  than  in  myself.) 

1  Oh,  well,  mate,'  he  said  haltingly,  and  then  stopped 
altogether.  He  was  drawing  an  intricate  pattern  in  the 
dust  with  the  blade  of  his  pen-knife,  a  favourite  pastime 
with  bushmen.  The  pause  was  pregnant.  At  last  he 
looked  up  with  a  toss  of  his  head.  '  Oh,  come  on,  mate,' 
he  said  impatiently.  '  Swim  across  to-night,  an'  we  'II 
beat  up  Queensland  way.  I  tell  ye,  travellin'  's  fine. 
Ye  've  got  no  boss  to  say  do  this  an'  that.  You  goes 
y'r  own  way  at  y'r  own  gait.     Ye  'd  better  come.' 

'  So  you  '11  go,  Ted.  I  knew  you  would,'  I  said, 
musing  in  my  rather  old-fashioned  way.  It  seems  a 
smallish  matter  enough  now  ;  but  I  know  that  at  the 
time  I  was  conscious  of  making  a  momentous  sacrifice, 
of  taking  a  step  of  epoch-making  significance.  Some- 
how, the  very  greatness  of  the  sacrifice  made  me  the 
more  determined  about  it.     I  should  lose  my  only  friend, 


92   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

a  devastating  loss ;  and  the  more  clearly  I  realised  how 
naked  this  loss  would  leave  me,  the  more  convinced  I 
felt  that  my  decision  was  right.  There  is,  of  course,  a 
kind  of  gluttony  in  self-denial ;  one's  appetite  for 
sacrifice,  and  particularly  in  youth,  may  be  undeniably 
avid. 

'  Well,  I  did  try  to  stop,'  he  muttered,  almost  sullenly 
for  him.  And  then,  with  that  toss  of  his  head,  and  the 
glimmering  of  a  frank  smile :  '  But  I  can't  stick  it. 
Humpin'  a  swag 's  about  all  I  'm  fit  for,  I  reckon.  You  're 
right,  too,  it 's  no  game  for  your  father's  son.'  And 
here  his  kindly  face  lost  all  trace  of  anything  but  friend- 
liness. '  Only,  what  beats  me  is  what  in  the  world  else 
can  ye  do,  mewed  up  in  this — this  blessed  work'us. 
That 's  what  has  me  beat.' 

The  crisis  was  passed,  and  with  it  the  last  of  Ted's 
shamefaced  constraint.  It  was  admitted  between  us 
that  he  must  be  off  again  to  his  wandering,  and  that  I 
must  stay  behind.  And  now  Ted  had  no  thought  for 
anything  but  my  welfare.  There  was  no  more  awkward- 
ness between  us,  but  only  the  warmth  of  this  good 
fellow's  real  affection,  and  the  almost  agreeable  melan- 
choly and  self-righteous  consciousness  of  wise  denial 
which  possessed  me.  Ted  fumbled  under  his  coat  with 
a  packet  of  some  food  he  had  brought  me  :  '  Spare 
me  days,  the  cats  might  give  a  lad  a  bit  o'  bread  to  his 
breakfast — drat  'em  !  ' — and,  finally  pressed  it  into  my 
hands,  with  injunctions  to  be  careful  in  opening  it,  as 
he  had  put  a  scrap  of  writing  in  with  it,  for  me  to  remember 
him  by. 

And  so  we  parted,  with  no  shadow  on  our  friendship, 
on  the  track  down  to  the  punt. 

But  though  my  friend  was  gone,  after  these  three 
Sunday  visits,  and  I  was  alone  again,  the  influence  of 
his  coming  remained.  I  should  not  revert  to  the  unhoping 
inertia  of  my  previous  state.  Some  instinct  told  me 
that.     And  the  instinct  was   right.     My  curiosity  had 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  93 

been  too  fully  roused.  My  relationship  to  the  world  of 
people  outside  St.  Peter's  had  been  definitely  re-established 
by  the  kindly,  rather  childlike,  bushman,  and  would  not 
again  be  allowed  to  lapse.  The  mere  talk  of  swimming 
to  the  wharf,  of  cutting  the  painter,  of  walking  forth 
into  the  real  world  which  was  not  ruled  by  a  Sister-in- 
charge — all  this  had  wrought  a  permanent  change  in  me. 
The  '  scrap  of  writin' '  fumblingly  inserted  into  the 
packet  of  cakes  was  no  writing  of  Ted's,  but  a  crumpled, 
greasy  one-pound  Bank  of  New  South  Wales  note  ;  one 
of  his  little  store,  useless  to  me  at  St.  Peter's — yes  ;  but, 
even  as  my  eyes  pricked  to  the  emotion  of  gratitude,  some 
inner  consciousness  told  me  my  friend's  gift  would  yet 
prove  of  very  real  use  to  me  outside  the  Orphanage, 
one  day.  And,  before  Ted  came,  I  had  been  unable  to 
descry  any  future  outside  the  Orphanage. 


I  do  not  remember  the  exact  period  that  elapsed  between 
Ted's  departure  and  the  visit  of  the  artist,  Mr.  Rawlcnce. 
But  it  must  have  been  early  winter  when  Ted  was  at 
Myall  Creek,  because  my  fifteenth  birthday  fell  at  about 
that  time  ;  and  it  was  spring  when  Mr.  Rawlcnce  came, 
for  I  know  the  wattle  was  in  bloom  then.  Very  likely  it 
was  in  August  or  September,  three  or  four  months  after 
Ted's  departure.  At  all  events  my  mind  was  still  much 
occupied  by  thoughts  of  the  outside  world  and  of  my 
future. 

Some  one  had  told  me  that  a  Sydney  artist,  a  Mr.  Raw- 
lcnce, had  permission  to  land  on  the  island,  as  he  wished 
to  sketch  there.  But  he  had  not  been  much  about  the 
house  or  the  yards,  and  I  had  not  seen  him.  And  then, 
one  late  afternoon,  when  I  had  arrived  at  the  milkin^- 
yards  a  few  minutes  before  the  others  of  the  milking  gang, 
I  stood  with  two  pails  in  my  right  hand,  leaning  over  the 
slip-rails  at  the  very  spot  upon  which  I  had  caught  my 


94  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

first  glimpse  of  Ted  at  St.  Peter's.  I  was  thinking  of  that 
Sunday  when  I  had  recognised  his  broad  shoulders,  and 
recalling  the  thrill  that  recognition  had  brought  me. 

The  romantic  hazardousness  of  life  had  for  some  con- 
siderable time  now  made  its  appeal  felt  by  me.  It  seemed 
infinitely  curious  and  interesting  to  me  that  I  and  my 
father  ever  should  have  known  Ted  intimately,  as  one 
who  shared  our  curious  life  on  the  Livorno  ;  Ted  who  was 
born  and  bred  there  in  Werrina  ;  we  who  came  there  across 
thousands  of  miles  of  ocean  from  the  world's  far  side,  from 
Putney,  from  places  whose  names  Ted  had  never  heard. 
And  then  that  I  should  have  walked  down  to  that  milking- 
yard  with  my  pails,  and,  so  to  say,  stumbled  upon  Ted, 
after  his  long  wanderings  in  Queensland,  where  at  this 
moment  he  was  probably  wandering  again,  hundreds  of 
miles  away,  and,  possibly,  thinking  of  me,  of  that  same 
milking-yard,  of  these  identical  slip-rails  and  splintery 
grey  fence.  A  wonderful  and  mysterious  business,  this 
life  in  the  great  world,  I  thought ;  and  with  that  I  threw 
up  my  left  hand  to  lift  the  rails  down. 

'  Oh,  hold  on  !  Don't  move  !  Stay  as  you  were  a 
minute  ! ' 

I  jumped  half  out  of  my  skin  as  these  words,  appar- 
ently spoken  in  my  very  ear,  reached  me ;  and,  wheeling 
abruptly  round,  I  saw  a  man  wearing  a  very  large  grey  felt 
hat,  and  holding  pencils  and  a  paper  block  in  his  hands, 
peering  at  me  from  a  little  wooded  hummock  at  the  end 
of  the  cowshed.  The  skin  about  his  eyes  was  all  puckered 
up,  he  held  a  pencil  cross-wise  between  his  white  teeth, 
and  was  shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side  as  though  very 
much  put  about  over  something. 

4  What  a  pity  !  It 's  gone  now,'  he  said,  as  he  strode 
down  the  slope  towards  me. 

He  clearly  was  disappointed  about  something ;  but 
yet  I  thought  that  never  since  the  days  when  my  father 
was  with  me  had  I  heard  any  one  speak  more  pleasantly, 
or  seen  any  one  smile  in  kindlier  fashion.    Later,  I  realised 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  95 

that  no  one  I  had  met  since  my  father's  death  possessed 
anything  resembling  the  sort  of  manner,  address,  intona- 
tion, or  mental  attitude  of  this  Mr.  Rawlence.  I  had  no 
theories  then  about  social  divisions,  and  the  like  ;  but 
here,  I  thought,  was  a  man  who  would  find  nobody  in  the 
district  having  anything  in  common  with  himself.  By 
the  same  token,  I  thought,  had  my  father  been  alive  this 
newcomer  would  have  recognised  a  possible  companion 
in  him.  And,  finally,  as  Mr.  Rawlence  came  to  a  stand- 
still before  me,  this  absurd  reflection  flitted  through  my 
mind  : 

4  If  he  only  knew  it,  there  's  me  !  But  he  will  never 
know — how  could  he  ?  ' 

The  absurd  vanity  and  audacity  of  the  thought  made 
me  blush  like  a  bashful  schoolgirl.  The  ridiculous  pre- 
tentiousness of  the  thought  that  in  me,  the  4  inmate  '  of 
St.  Peter's,  this  splendid  person  could  find  a  companion, 
impressed  me  now  so  painfully  that  I  felt  it  must  be 
plainly  visible  ;  that  the  visitor  must  see  and  be  scornfully 
amused  by  it.  Yet,  with  really  extraordinary  cordiality, 
he  was  holding  out  his  right  hand  in  salutation.  Here 
again  my  awkwardness  made  me  bungle.  What  he 
meant  by  his  gesture  I  could  not  think.  Some  amusing 
trick,  perhaps.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  in  that  moment  of 
self-abasement  that  he  wished  to  shake  an  '  inmate's  ' 
hand. 

'  Won't  you  shake  ?  '  he  asked,  with  that  smile  of  his — 
so  unlike  any  expression  one  saw  on  folks'  faces  at 
St.  Peter's. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  I  faltered,  and  gave  him  a  limp 
hand,  reviling  myself  inwardly  for  conduct  which  I  felt 
would  utterly  and  for  ever  condemn  me  in  this  gentle- 
man's eyes.  '  Of  course,'  I  told  myself,  *  he  '11  be  think- 
ing :  "  What  can  one  expect  from  these  unfortunate  in- 
mates— friendless  orphans,  living  on  charity  ?  "  '  As  a 
fact,  I  suppose  no  man's  demeanour  could  have  been  less 
suggestive  of  any  such  uncharitable  thought. 


96   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

*  I  suspect  you  thought  it  like  my  cheek,  yelling  at  you 
like  that.  The  fact  is,  I  had  just  begun  to  sketch  you. 
See!' 

He  showed  me  his  sketch-block,  upon  which  I  saw  in 
outline  the  figure  of  a  boy  carrying  pails  and  leaning  over 
a  fence.  What  chiefly  caught  my  eye  in  this  was  the  re- 
production of  my  absurd  trousers,  one  torn  leg  reaching 
midway  down  the  calf,  the  other  in  jagged  scallops  about 
my  knee.  He  might  have  idealised  my  rags  a  little,  I 
thought,  in  my  ignorance.  No  doubt  I  had  been  better 
pleased  if  Mr.  Rawlence  had  endowed  me  in  the  sketch 
with  the  dress  of,  say,  a  smart  clerk.  And,  apart  from 
the  artistic  aspect,  the  man  who  would  sniff  at  this  as 
evidence  of  contemptible  snobbishness  in  me,  would  take 
a  more  lenient  view,  perhaps,  if  he  had  ever  spent  a  year 
or  two  in  an  orphanage  like  St.  Peter's. 

'  It  has  the  makings  of  quite  a  good  little  character 
study,  I  fancy.  Later  on,  when  you  're  free — perhaps, 
to-morrow — I  '11  get  you  to  give  me  half  an  hour,  if  you 
will,  to  make  a  real  sketch  of  it.' 

It  was  in  my  mind  that  if  only  I  could  make  a  remark 
of  the  right  kind  I  might  immediately  differentiate  my- 
self in  this  artist's  eyes  from  the  general  run  of  '  inmates.' 
This  again  may  have  been  an  unworthy  and  snobbish 
thought,  but  I  know  it  was  mine  at  the  time,  based  in 
my  mind  upon  the  unvoiced  but  profound  conviction  that 
I  was  different  in  essence  from  the  other  orphans.  This 
was  not  mere  conceit,  I  think,  because  it  emanated  rather 
from  pride  in  my  father  than  from  any  exalted  opinion 
of  myself.  But,  whatever  the  rights  of  it,  no  suitable 
remark  came  to  me.  Indeed,  beyond  an  incoherent 
mumble  over  the  hand-shaking,  I  might  have  been  a  mute 
for  all  the  part  I  had  so  far  taken  in  this  interview.  And 
just  then  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Sister  Agatha  emerging 
from  behind  the  wood-stack  at  the  end  of  the  vegetable 
garden,  and  that  gave  me  something  else  to  think  about. 

'  Excuse  me  !  '   I  said,   angrily  conscious  that  I  was 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  97 

flushing  again  and  that  all  my  limbs  were  in  my  way,  and 
that  I  was  presenting  a  most  uncouth  appearance.  '  I 
must  get  on  with  the  milking.'  And  then  I  made  my 
plunge.  '  Perhaps  you  would  speak  to  Sister-in-charge. 
Not  this  one  here,  but  Sister-in-charge,'  I  hurriedly 
added  as  Sister  Agatha  drew  nearer,  her  thin  lips  tightly 
compressed,  her  gimlet  eyes  full  of  promise  of  ear-tweak- 
ings.  '  She  would  perhaps  give  me  leave  to — to  do  any- 
thing you  wanted.     I — I  am  sure  she  would.     Good-bye  !  * 

Having  hurriedly  fired  this  last  shot,  I  bolted  into  the 
milking-shed.  Just  for  an  instant  I  had  succeeded  in 
meeting  Mr.  Rawlcnce's  eye.  I  had  very  much  wanted  to 
show  him  something,  as,  for  example,  that  I  would  gladly 
do  anything  he  liked,  even  to  the  extent  of  allowing  him 
to  trample  all  over  me — if  only  I  had  been  a  free  agent. 
In  some  way  I  had  longed  to  claim  kinship  with  him,  in 
a  humble  fashion  ;  to  say  that  I  understood  him  and 
his  kind,  despite  my  ragged  trousers  and  scarred,  dusty 
bare  feet.  Now,  with  a  pail  between  my  knees,  and  my 
head  in  a  cow's  Hank,  I  was  very  sure  I  had  utterly  failed 
to  convey  anything,  except  that  I  was  an  uncouth  creature. 
My  eyes  smarted  from  mortification  ;  and  the  grotesque 
thought  crossed  my  mind  that  if  only  I  had  had  a  photo- 
graph of  my  father,  and  could  have  shown  it  to  Mr.  Raw- 
lence,  the  position  would  have  been  quite  different  1  I 
suppose  I  must  have  been  a  rather  fatuous  youth.  Also, 
I  was  obsessed  to  the  point  of  mania  by  the  determination 
not  to  become  a  veritable  '  inmate  '  of  St.  Peter's,  like 
my  fellows  there,  however  long  I  might  be  condemned 
to  live  in  the  place. 

During  the  next  three  days  I  was  greatly  depressed  by 
the  fact  that  I  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  artist  any- 
where. In  fact,  it  was  said  that  he  had  gone  away  from 
Myall  Creek  altogether.  And  then,  greatly  to  my  secret 
joy,  the  Sister-in-charge  sent  for  me  one  morning  and 
said  : 

4  There  is  an  artist  gentleman  coming  here,  Mr.  Raw- 

G 


98   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

lence.  You  are  to  do  whatever  he  tells  you,  and  carry 
his  things  for  him  while  he  is  here.  Be  careful  now.  I 
have  word  from  Father  O'Malley  about  this.  Be  sure  you 
don't  neglect  your  milking.  You  can  tell  the  gentleman 
when  you  have  to  go  to  that.  You  can  do  some  wood- 
chopping  after  tea,  if  he  should  want  you  in  your  chopping 
time.  Run  along  now,  and  go  over  in  the  punt  with  Tim 
when  he  goes  to  meet  the  gentleman.' 

It  would  seem  the  good-will  of  the  Great  Powers  had 
once  more  been  invoked  in  connection  with  me ;  and  I 
learned  afterwards  that  Mr.  Rawlence  had  not  left  the 
district,  but  had  been  staying  in  Werrina  for  a  few  days. 
While  there,  no  doubt,  he  had  met  Father  O'Malley,  and 
very  casually,  I  dare  say,  had  mentioned  his  fancy  for 
sketching  me.  At  the  time  these  trivial  events  stirred 
me  deeply.  That  Father  O'Malley  should  have  been  ap- 
proached seemed  to  me  a  fact  of  high  portent.  If  only 
I  had  had  a  portrait  of  my  father  ! 

As  Destiny  ruled  it,  Mr.  Rawlence  spent  but  the  one 
day  at  St.  Peter's,  in  place  of  the  enthralling  vista  of  days, 
each  of  more  romantic  interest  than  its  predecessor,  of 
which  I  had  dreamed.  He  had  news  demanding  his  return 
to  Sydney ;  and,  as  he  said,  he  ought  not  to  have  come 
out  to  St.  Peter's  even  for  this  one  day.  But  he  wanted 
to  complete  his  sketch.  So  that,  in  a  sense,  he  really 
came  to  see  me  again.  This  radiant  being's  swift  and  im- 
portant movements  in  the  great  world  outside  the  Orphan- 
age were  directly  influenced  by  me.  It  was  a  stirring 
thought,  and  went  some  way  toward  compensating  me 
for  the  shattered  vista  of  many  days  spent  in  leisurely 
attendance  upon  the  man  belonging  to  my  father's  order. 
It  was  thus  I  thought  of  him. 

I  cannot  of  course  recall  every  word  spoken  and  every 
little  event  of  that  momentous  day,  and  it  would  serve 
no  useful  purpose  if  I  could.  It  was  important  for  me, 
less  by  reason  of  anything  remarkable  in  itself,  than  by 
virtue  of  what  was  going  on  in  my  own  mind  while  I  posed 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  90 

for  Mr.  Rawlencc  (possibly  in  more  senses  than  one)  and 
subsequently  carried  his  paraphernalia  for  him,  showed 
him  his  way  about  the  island,  and  generally  attended  upon 
him.  I  had  hoped  that  he  would  question  me  about  my 
life  before  coming  to  St.  Peter's,  and  he  did.  By  this 
time  I  was  at  my  ease  with  him,  and  I  think  I  told  my 
brief  story  intelligently.  In  any  case,  I  interested  him  ; 
so  much  I  saw  clearly  and  with  satisfaction.  I  noted,  too, 
that  he  was  impressed  by  the  name  of  the  London  news- 
paper with  which  my  father  had  been  connected  before 
his  determination  to  seek  peace  in  the  wilds. 

'  H'm  ! '  '  Ah  ! '  *  Strange  ! '  ■ A  recluse  indeed  !  ' 
*  And  you  think  he  had  never  seen  this — St.  Peter's,  that 
is,  when  he  wrote  the  letter  arranging  for  you  to  come  here  ? 
Well,  to  be  sure,  there  was  little  choice,  of  course,  little 
choice  enough,  and  in  such  a  lonely,  isolated  place.' 

I  remember  these  among  his  exclamations  and  com- 
ments upon  my  story.  And  then  he  asked  me  what  ideas 
I  had  about  my  future,  and  I  told  him,  none.  I  also 
told  him  of  Ted's  visit  and  of  his  offer  to  me,  and  my 
refusal  of  it. 

1  Yes,'  he  said,  '  that  was  wise  of  you,  I  think  ;  that 
certainly  was  best.  In  some  countries  now,  in  the  Old 
World,  one  might  advise  you  to  stick  to  the  country.  But 
here —  Well,  you  know,  there  must  be  some  real  reason 
for  the  rapid  growth  of  the  Australian  capital  cities,  and 
the  comparative  stagnation  of  the  countryside.  The 
more  cultured  people  won't  leave  the  capitals,  and  that 
affects  country  life.  Yes,  but  why  won't  they  leave  the 
cities  ?  They  do  in  the  Old  World,  for  I  've  met  'cm  in 
the  villages  and  country  towns  there.     But  why  is  it  ?  * 

Mr.  Rawlencc  could  hardly  have  cxj>ected  an  answer 
from  mc  ;  but  part  of  his  charm  was  that  he  made  it  seem, 
while  he  talked  and  I  listened,  that  we  were  jointly  dis- 
cussing the  subject  of  his  monologue,  and  that  he  was 
much  interested  by  my  views.  He  had  that  air ;  his  smile 
and  his  manner  made  one  feel  that. 


100   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

'  Well,  you  know,'  he  continued,  '  it  must  be  partly  the 
crude  material  difficulties  which  the  actual  and  physical 
conditions  of  country  life  here  present  to  educated  people, 
and  partly  the  fact  that  our  country  in  Australia  has  got 
no  traditions,  no  associations,  no  atmosphere.  It  is  just 
a  negation,  a  wilderness ;  not  a  rural  civilisation,  but 
a  mere  gap  in  civilisation.  Pioneering  is  picturesque 
enough — in  fiction.  In  fact,  it  permits  of  no  leisure  and 
no  idealisation  ;   and  without  those  things ' 

Mr.  Rawlence  paused  with  outstretched  hands,  shrug- 
ging shoulders,  and  the  smile  of  one  who  should  say — 
'  You  understand,  of  course.'  My  modest  contribution 
was  in  three  words,  delivered  with  emphatic  gestures  of 
acquiescence — '  That 's  just  it.' 

'  Exactly,'  resumed  the  artist.  '  Without  leisure,  with- 
out time  for  anything  outside  the  material  things  of 
life,  where  is  your  culture  ?  Where  is  art  ?  Where  is 
romance  ?  Where,  in  short,  is  civilisation  ?  And  so, 
as  I  say,  I  cannot  advise  you  to  stick  to  the  country  here. 
No,  one  really  can't  conscientiously  advise  that,  you 
know.' 

A  listener  might  fairly  have  supposed  that  I  was  a 
young  gentleman  of  means  who  had  sought  advice  as  to 
the  desirability  of  investing  capital  in  rural  New  South 
Wales,  and  taking  up,  say,  the  pastoral  life,  in  preference 
to  a  professional  career  in  Sydney.  I  pinched  my  knees 
exultingly ;  perhaps  to  demonstrate  to  myself  the  fact 
that  all  this  was  no  dream.  It  was  I,  the  orphan,  who 
was  carrying  on  this  thrilling  conversation  with  an  accom- 
plished man  of  the  world,  a  distinguished  artist.  I  felt 
that  Mr.  Rawlence  must  clearly  be  a  distinguished  artist. 

'  And  so  what— what  would  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  ' 
I  asked  when  a  pause  came.  And,  immediately,  I  re- 
proached myself,  feeling  that  I  had  broken  a  delightful 
spell,  and  risked  abruptly  ending  the  most  interesting 
conversation  in  which  I  ever  took  part.  The  words  of 
my  question  had  so  crude  a  sound.     They  dragged  our 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  101 

talk  down  to  a  lower  plane,  to  a  plane  merely  utilitarian, 
almost  squalid  by  comparison  with  the  roseate  heights 
we  had  been  easily  skimming.  That  was  how  the  sound 
of  my  own  poor  words  struck  me  ;  but  my  companion  was 
not  so  easily  dashed.  My  crudity  could  not  fret  his  accom- 
plished savoir-faire.  (Mr.  Rawlence  impressed  me  as  the 
most  finished  man  of  the  world  I  had  ever  met,  with  the 
single  exception  of  my  father ;  and,  indeed,  the  Sydney 
artist  did  shine  brightly  beside  the  sort  of  people  I  had 
lived  among  of  late.) 

4  Well,'  he  said,  with  smiling  thoughtfulness,  *  I  would 
advise  you,  when — when  the  time  comes,  to  make  your 
way  to  Sydney,  and  to — to  work  up  a  place  for  yourself 
there.  Of  course,  there  is  your  native  country — England. 
Who  knows  ?  Some  day,  perhaps —  But,  meantime,  I 
think  Sydney  offers  better  chances  than  any  other  place 
in  this  country.  Yes,  I  think  so.  Have  you  any  special 
leanings  ?  Is  there  any  particular  work  that  you  are 
specially  keen  on  ?  ' 

Like  a  flash  the  thought  passed  through  my  mind  : 
4  What  a  miserable  creature  I  must  be  !  There  's  nothing 
I  particularly  want  to  do.  If  he  finds  that  out,  there  's  an 
end  to  any  interest  in  me,  of  course.  Why  haven't  I 
thought  of  this  before  ?  What  can  I  say  ?  '  And  in  the 
same  moment,  without  appreciable  pause,  I  was  startled, 
but  agreeably  startled,  to  hear  my  own  voice  saying  in 
quite  an  intelligent  way :  '  Well,  my  father  wrote,  of 
course  ;  his  work  was  literary  work,  and — newspapers, 
you  know.' 

I  can  answer  for  it  that  I  had  never  till  that  moment 
given  a  single  thought  to  any  such  notion  as  a  literary 
career  for  myself.  As  well  think  of  a  prime  minister's 
career,  I  should  have  thought.  But,  as  I  well  remember, 
my  very  accent,  intonation,  and  choice  of  words  had  all 
insensibly  changed  to  fit,  as  I  thought,  the  taste  and 
habit  of  my  new  friend.  And  I  felt  it  would  be  an  extra- 
vagant folly  to  talk  to  him  as  I  had  talked  with  Ted,  or 


102   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

as  I  talked  with  fellow  orphans  at  St.  Peter's,  of  c  pound- 
er-week-an'-all-found  '  jobs,  or  the  '  good  money  '  there 
was  '  in  carting,'  or  the  fine  careers  that  offered  in  con- 
nection with  the  construction  of  new  railways.  I  had 
often  been  told  you  could  not  beat  the  job  of  cooking  for 
a  shearers'  or  a  navvies'  camp ;  and  that  a  wideawake 
boy  could  earn  '  good  money '  while  learning  it,  as  a 
rouseabout  assistant.  It  seemed  to  me  that  there  would 
have  been  something  too  absurdly  incongruous  in  attempt- 
ing to  talk  of  such  things  to  Mr.  Rawlence.  Hence,  per- 
haps, my  audacious  suggestion  of  the  literary  career. 
There  I  might  secure  his  interest.  And,  sure  enough,  I 
did. 

'  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,'  he  said,  nodding  encour- 
agingly. '  Well,  with  that  in  view,  Sydney  is  practically 
the  only  place,  you  know.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say  it 's 
easy,  or  that  one  could  hope  to  make  headway  quickly ; 
but  gradually,  gradually,  a  fellow  could  feel  his  way 
there,  if  anywhere  in  the  colony.  It  is  undoubtedly  our 
centre  of  art  and  literature,  and  culture  generally.  At 
first  you  might  have  to  do  quite  different  sort  of  work  ; 
but,  while  doing  it,  you  know,  you  could  be  always  on 
the  lookout,  always  feeling  your  way  to  better  things. 
Sydney  is,  at  all  events,  a  capital  city,  you  see.  There 
is  society  in  Sydney,  in  a  metropolitan  sense.  There  is 
culture.  One  is  continually  meeting  interesting  people 
who  are  doing  interesting  things.  It 's  not  Paris  or 
London,  you  know,  but ' 

He  had  a  trick  of  using  a  radiant  smile  in  place  of 
articulation,  by  way  of  finishing  a  sentence  ;  and  I  found 
it  more  eloquent  than  any  words,  and,  to  me,  more  subtly 
flattering.  It  said  so  clearly,  and  more  tactfully  than 
words  :  '  But  you  follow  me,  I  see  ;  I  know  you  under- 
stand me.'  And  I  felt  with  rare  delight  that  I  could 
and  did  follow  this  fascinating  man,  and  understand  all 
his  airy  allusions  to  things  as  far  beyond  the  purview  of 
my  present  life  and  prospect  as  the  heavens  are  beyond 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  103 

the  earth,  or  as  Mr.  Rawlcnce  was  above  an  '  inmate  ' 
of  St.  Peter's.  To  a  twentieth-century  English  artist, 
Mr.  Rawlcnce  might  have  seemed  a  shade  crude,  possibly 
rather  pompous  and  affected,  somewhat  jejune  and  trite, 
perhaps.  But  our  talk  took  place  in  the  'seventies  of 
last  century,  in  New  South  Wales.  The  Board  School 
was  a  new  invention  in  England,  and  in  Australia  there 
was  quite  a  lot  of  bushranging  still  to  come,  and  the 
arrival  of  transported  convicts  had  but  recently  ceased. 

I  have  not  attempted  to  set  down  anything  like  the 
whole  of  the  talk  between  the  artist  and  myself  ;  rather, 
to  indicate  its  quality.  Much  of  it,  I  dare  say,  was 
trivial,  and  all  of  it  would  appear  so  in  written  form. 
Its  effect  upon  me  was  altogether  out  of  proportion  to  its 
real  significance,  no  doubt.  It  was  all  new  talk  to  me, 
but  I  admit  it  is  not  easy  now  to  understand  its  pro- 
foundly stirring  and  inspiring  influence.  A  casual 
phrase  or  two,  for  example,  affected  my  thoughts  for  long 
months  afterwards.     Mr.  Rawlcnce  said  : 

'  There  's  an  accomplishment  coming  into  general  use 
now  that  might  help  you  enormously  :  phonography, 
shorthand-writing,  you  know.  I  am  told  it  will  mean 
a  revolution  in  ordinary  clerical  work,  and  newspaper 
work  already  rests  largely  on  it.  The  man  who  can 
write  a  hundred  words  a  minute — I  think  that 's  about 
what  they  manage  with  it — will  command  a  good  post 
in  any  office,  or  on  any  newspaper,  I  should  think.  I 
should  certainly  learn  shorthand,  if  I  were  you.  Perhaps 
you  could  get  them  to  introduce  it  here.' 

I  thought  of  Sister  Agatha,  and  pictured  myself 
suggesting  to  her  the  introduction  of  shorthand  into  our 
curriculum  in  the  Orphanage  school.  And  at  the  same 
moment  I  recalled  the  occasions,  only  yesterday,  upon 
which  I  had  had  to  '  hold  out '  my  hand  to  this  bitterly 
enthusiastic  wiclder  of  the  cane.  My  palms  had  purple 
weals  on  them  at  that  moment,  tough  though  they  were 
from  outdoor  work.     I  clenched  my  hands  involuntarily, 


104   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

and  was  thankful  the  artist  could  not  see  their  palms. 
That  would  have  been  a  horrid  humiliation ;  the  very 
thought  of  it  made  me  flush.  No,  this  shorthand  would 
hardly  be  introduced  at  St.  Peter's  ;  but  I  would  learn 
it,  I  thought,  all  the  same ;  and  in  due  course  I  did,  to 
find  (again  in  due  course)  that  even  the  acquisition  of 
this  mystery  hardly  represented  quite  the  infallible  key 
to  fame  and  fortune  that  Mr.  Rawlence  thought  it  in 
the  'seventies. 

But  my  attitude  toward  this  sufficiently  casual 
suggestion  was  typical  of  the  immensely  stirring  and 
impressive  influence  which  all  the  artist's  talk  of  that 
day  had  upon  me.  It  was  undoubtedly  most  kindly  of 
him  to  show  all  the  interest  he  did  in  one  from  whom 
he  could  not  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  be  said 
to  have  anything  to  gain.  We  were  quite  old  friends, 
he  said,  in  his  amiable  way,  by  the  time  evening  ap- 
proached, and  we  began  to  pack  up  his  paraphernalia. 
My  crowning  triumph  came  when,  in  leaving,  he  gave 
me  his  card,  and  wrote  my  full  name  down  in  his  dainty 
little  pocket-book. 

'  When  you  do  get  to  Sydney,  you  must  come  and  look 
me  up  without  fail.  My  studio  is  at  the  address  on  the 
card,  and  I  'm  generally  to  be  found  there.  Mind,  I 
shall  expect  a  call  as  soon  as  you  arrive,  and  we  will 
talk  things  over.  I  'm  certain  you  '11  reach  Sydney, 
by  and  by.  Like  London,  at  home,  you  know,  it 's  the 
magnet  for  all  the  ambitious  here.  Good-bye,  and  best 
of  good  luck  !  ' 

'  Mr.  Charles  Frederick  Rawlence,  Filson's  House, 
Macquarie  Street,  Sydney,'  was  what  I  read  on  the 
card.  And  then,  in  very  small  type  in  one  corner, 
'  Studio,  3rd  Floor.' 

I  think  it  had  been  the  most  vividly  exciting  day  in 
my  life  up  till  then  ;  and,  though  still  an  orphan,  and 
officially  an  '  inmate,'  I  walked  among  the  clouds  that 
night ;    a  giant  among  dwarfs  and  slaves  by  my  way 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  105 

of  it.  Youth — aye,  the  immemorial  magic  of  it  was 
alive  in  my  blood  on  this  spring  night,  if  you  like  ;  and 
not  all  the  Sister  Agathas  in  all  the  hierarchy  of  Rome 
had  power  to  dull  the  wonder  of  it ! 

VI 

'  If  it 's  to  be  done  at  all,  why  not  now  ?  There  's 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  waiting.    I  'm  only  wasting  time.' 

Phrases  of  this  sort  formed  the  burden  of  all  my 
thoughts  for  a  number  of  weeks  after  my  memorable 
'  day  out '  (as  the  servants  say)  with  the  Sydney  artist. 
I  no  longer  debated  with  myself  at  all  the  question  as 
to  whether  or  not  I  should  leave  the  Orphanage.  It 
would  have  seemed  treachery  to  my  new  self,  and  in  a 
way  to  Mr.  Rawlcnce  (my  source  of  inspiration)  to 
debate  the  point.  It  was  quite  certain  then  that  I 
should  take  my  fate  into  my  own  hands,  leave  St.  Peter's, 
and  make  an  attempt  to  win  my  way  in  the  world  alone. 

Having  no  belongings,  no  friends  to  consult,  no  pos- 
sessions of  any  sort  or  kind  (save  Ted's  one-pound  note, 
and  a  neatly  bound  manuscript  volume  of  bush  botany, 
which  latter  treasure  had  been  in  my  pocket  on  the  day 
of  my  father's  death,  and  so  had  remained  mine),  there 
really  were  no  preparations  for  me  to  make.  And  so, 
as  I  said  to  myself  a  score  of  times  a  day  :  '  There  's 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  waiting.'  Still,  I  waited,  some 
underlying  vein  of  prudence  in  mo,  or  of  cowardice,  offer- 
ing no  reason — no  reason  against  the  move,  no  objection, 
but  just  negation,  the  inertia  of  that  which  is  still.  But, 
yes,  I  was  most  certainly  going,  and  soon.  That  was  my 
last  waking  thought  even'  night  when  I  dug  my  head  into 
my  straw  pillow,  and  my  first  waking  thought  when  I 
swung  my  feet  down  to  the  floor.  I  was  going  out  into 
the  world  to  make  my  own  way. 

I  was  too  closely  engaged  by  the  material  aspect  of 
my  position  to  span*  thoughts  for  its  abstract  quality. 


106   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

But,  looking  back  from  the  cool  greyness  of  later  life,  one 
sees  a  wistful  pathos,  and,  too,  a  certain  stirring  fineness 
in  the  situation.  And  if  that  is  so,  how  infinitely  the 
pathos  and  the  fineness  are  enhanced  by  this  thought : 
Every  day  in  the  year,  in  every  country  in  the  world, 
some  lad,  somewhere,  is  gazing  out  toward  life's  horizon, 
just  as  I  was,  and  telling  himself,  even  as  I  did,  that  he 
must  start  out  upon  his  individual  journey ;  for  him 
the  most  important  of  all  the  voyages  ever  undertaken 
since  Adam  and  Eve  set  forth  from  their  garden.  I 
suppose  it  is  rarely  that  a  long  distance  train  enters  a 
London  terminal  but  what  one  such  lad  steps  forth 
from  it,  bent  upon  conquest,  and,  in  how  many  cases, 
bound  for  defeat !  Even  of  Sydney  the  same  thing  was 
and  is  true,  on  a  numerically  smaller  scale. 

In  all  lands  and  in  all  times  the  outsetting  is  essentially 
the  same  :  the  same  high  hopes  and  brave  determinations  ; 
the  same  profound  conviction  of  uniqueness  ;  the  same 
perfectly  true  and  justifiable  inner  knowledge  that,  for 
the  individual,  this  journey  is  the  most  important  in  all 
history.  In  many  cases,  of  course,  there  are  a  mother's 
tears,  a  father's  blessing,  and  suchlike  substitutes  for 
the  stirrup-cup.  And,  withal,  in  every  single  case,  how 
absolutely  alone  the  young  voyager  really  is,  and  must  be ! 
For  our  scientists  have  not  as  yet  discovered  any  means  of 
precipitating  the  experience  gleaned  in  one  generation 
(or  a  thousand)  into  the  hearts  and  minds  of  another 
generation.  Circumstances  differ  vastly,  of  course ; 
but  the  central  facts  are  the  same  in  every  case  ;  the 
traveller  must  always  be  alone.  The  adventure  upon 
which  he  sets  out,  be  he  prince  or  pauper,  university 
graduate  or  '  inmate  '  of  St.  Peter's,  is  one  which  cannot 
be  delegated  by  him,  or  taken  from  him,  for  it  is  his  own 
life  ;  his  and  his  alone,  to  make  or  to  mar,  to  perfect  or 
to  botch,  to  cherish  or  to  waste,  to  convert  into  a  fruitful 
garden,  or  to  relinquish,  when  his  time  comes,  a  sour  and 
•derelict  plot  of  barrenness. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  107 

And  this  tremendous  undertaking,  with  all  its  infinite 
potentialities  of  good  and  evil,  joy  and  agony,  pride  and 
despair,  is  in  every  country  approached  by  somebody, 
by  some  one  of  our  own  kind,  every  single  morning,  and 
has  been  down  through  the  ages  since  time  began,  and  will 
be  while  time  lasts.  And  there  are  folk  who  call  modern 
life  prosaic,  dull,  devoid  of  romance.  Romance  !  Why, 
in  the  older  lands  there  is  hardly  a  foot  of  road  space  that 
has  not  been  trodden  at  one  time  or  another  by  youth 
or  maid,  in  the  crucial  moment  of  setting  out  upon  this 
amazing  adventure.  There  are  men  and  women  who 
drum  their  fingers  on  a  window-pane  after  breakfast  of 
a  morning,  and  yawn  out  their  disgust  at  the  empty 
dullness  of  life,  the  vacant  boredom  of  another  day.  And 
within  a  mile  of  them,  as  like  as  not,  some  one  is  setting 
forth — lips  compressed,  brow  knit — upon  the  great  ad- 
venture. And,  too,  some  one  else  is  face  to  face  with  the 
other  great  adventure — the  laying  down  of  life.  Some- 
where close  to  us  every  single  morning  brings  one  or  other, 
or  both  of  these  two  incomparably  romantic  happenings. 

Truly,  to  confess  ennui,  or  make  complaint  of  the  dull- 
ness of  life,  is  to  confess  to  a  sort  of  creeping  paralysis  of 
the  mind.  To  be  weary  is  comprehensible  enough.  Yes, 
God  knows  I  can  understand  the  existence  of  weariness 
or  exhaustion.  To  be  bored  even  is  natural  enough,  if 
one  is  bored  by,  say,  forced  inaction,  or  obligatory  action 
of  a  futile,  meaningless  kind.  But  negative  boredom ;  to 
be  uninterested,  not  because  adverse  circumstances  con- 
fine you  to  this  or  that  barren  and  uncongenial  milieu, 
but  because  you  sec  nothing  of  interest  in  life  as  a  whole  ; 
because  life  seems  to  you  a  dull,  empty,  or  prosaic  busi- 
ness— that  argues  a  kind  of  blindness,  a  poverty  of 
imagination,  which  amounts  to  disease,  and,  surely,  to 
disease  of  a  most  humiliating  sort. 

But  this  is  digression  of  a  sort  I  have  not  hitherto  per- 
mitted myself  in  this  record.  To  be  precise,  I  should  say, 
it  is  digression  of  a  sort  which  up  till  now  has,  when  dc- 


108   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

tected,  been  religiously  expunged — sent  to  feed  my  fire. 
Well,  one  has  always  pencils  ;  the  fire  is  generally  at 
hand  ;  we  shall  see.  After  all,  a  great  deal  of  one's  life  is 
made  up  of  digressions. 

VII 

In  the  summer-time  there  were  sharks  in  Myall  Creek, 
but  I  had  never  seen  them  there  in  the  spring.  It  was,  I 
think,  still  somewhere  short  of  midnight  when  I  stepped 
quietly  out  of  the  low  window  of  the  room  I  shared  with 
seven  other  orphans.  (The  house  was  all  of  one  storey.) 
I  would  have  taken  boots,  but,  excepting  on  visitors' 
Sundays,  these  were  kept  in  a  locked  cupboard  in  the 
sisters'  building.  My  outfit  consisted  of  a  comparatively 
whole  pair  of  trousers — not  those  immortalised  in  Mr. 
Rawlence's  sketch — a  strong,  short-sleeved  shirt  of  hard, 
grey  woollen  stuff,  a  dilapidated  waistcoat,  a  belt,  my  little 
book  of  bush  flowers  and  trees,  and  my  one-pound  note. 
Oh,  and  an  ancient  grey  felt  hat  with  a  large  hole  in  the 
crown  of  it.  That  was  all ;  but  I  dare  say  notable  careers 
have  been  started  upon  less  ;  in  cash,  if  not  in  clothing. 

Beside  the  punt  I  hesitated  for  a  few  moments,  half 
inclined  to  cross  by  that  obvious  means,  and  leave  Tim 
to  do  the  swimming  by  daylight.  Finally,  however,  I 
slipped  off  my  clothes,  tied  them  in  a  bundle  on  my  head, 
and  stepped  silently  into  the  water,  closely  and  interestedly 
observed  by  one  of  the  Orphanage  watch-dogs,  chained 
beside  the  landing-stage.  If  he  had  barked,  it  would  have 
been  only  from  desire  to  come  with  me,  in  which  case,  to 
save  trouble,  I  should  probably  have  become  guilty  of 
dog-stealing.     The  dogs  were  all  good  friends  of  mine. 

The  water  was  cold  that  spring  night,  but  I  was  soon 
out  of  it,  and  using  my  shirt  for  a  hard  rub  down  in  the 
scrub  beside  the  creek  wharf.  As  a  precaution  I  had 
waited  for  a  moonless  night,  and  had  made  my  exit  with 
no  more  noise  than  was  caused  by  one  of  the  night  birds 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  109 

or  little  beasts  that  visited  our  island.  I  had  seen  maps, 
and  knew  the  compass  bearings  of  the  locality.  My 
ultimate  destination  being  Sydney,  I  turned  to  the  south- 
ward, and  stepped  out  briskly  along  the  track  leading 
towards  Milton,  and  away  from  Werrina. 

That  was  the  simple  fashion  of  my  outsetting  into  the 
world,  and  for  a  time  I  gave  literally  no  thought  at  all 
to  its  real  significance.  My  recognition  of  it  as  the  begin- 
ning of  the  great  adventure  of  independent  life  was  tem- 
porarily obscured  by  my  preoccupation  with  its  detail. 

At  the  end  of  a  silent  hour  or  two,  when  I  suppose  half 
a  dozen  miles  lay  between  myself  and  the  Orphanage,  the 
reflective  faculties  came  into  play  again.  I  began  to  see 
my  affair  more  clearly,  and  to  see  it  whole,  or  pretty 
nearly  so.  From  that  point  onward,  I  put  in  quite  a 
good  deal  of  steady  thinking  with  regard  to  the  future. 
I  had  two  or  three  definite  objects  in  view,  and  the  first 
of  these  was  to  reach  as  quickly  as  possible  some  point 
not  less  than  about  fifty  nules  distant  from  Myall  Creek, 
at  which  I  could  feel  safe  from  any  likely  encounter  with 
a  chance  traveller  from  that  district. 

So  much  accomplished  my  plans  represented  in  effect 
a  pedestrian  journey  to  Sydney.  But  I  recognised  that 
the  journey  might  occupy  some  time,  since,  in  the  course  of 
it,  I  was  to  earn  money  and  then  learn  shorthand  ;  the 
money,  by  way  of  working  capital  and  insurance  against 
accidents ;  the  shorthand,  to  furnish  my  stock-in-trade 
and  passport  in  the  metropolitan  world.  So  mine  was  not 
to  be  exactly  a  holiday  walking  tour.  Yet  I  do  not  think 
any  one  could  have  set  out  upon  a  holiday  tour  with  more 
of  zest  than  I  brought  to  my  tramping.  My  mood  was 
not  of  gaiity,  rather  it  was  one  attuned  to  high  and 
almost  solemn  emprise;  but,  yes,  I  was  full  of  zest  in 
my  walking. 

An  hour  or  so  before  daybreak  I  lay  down  on  some 
dead  fern  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  and  sombre  red  mahogany 
tree,  where  the  track  forked.     It  was  partly  that  I  wanted 


110   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

a  rest,  and  partly  that  I  was  uncertain  which  track  led  to 
the  township  of  Milton,  where  I  purposed  buying  some 
food  before  any  chance  word  of  my  flight  from  the  Orphan- 
age could  have  travelled  so  far.  The  authorities  at  the 
Orphanage  were  little  likely  to  trouble  themselves  greatly 
over  a  runaway  orphan  ;  but  I  cherished  a  hazy  idea  that 
in  my  case  the  matter  might  be  somehow  a  little  different, 
in  the  same  way  that  I  had  not  been  farmed  out  to  any 
one  in  the  district,  possibly  because  in  receiving  me 
St.  Peter's  had  also  received  some  money,  certainly  more 
than  could  be  represented  by  the  cost  of  my  maintenance. 
In  any  case,  I  did  not  want  to  take  any  unnecessary 
risks. 

Two  minutes  after  lying  down  I  was  asleep.  When  I 
waked  the  sun  was  clear  of  the  horizon,  and  I  was  partly 
covered  over  by  dead  bracken.  The  dawn  hours  had 
been  chilly,  and  evidently  I  had  grappled  the  fern  leaves 
to  me  in  my  sleep,  as  one  tugs  a  blanket  over  one's  shoulder, 
without  waking,  when  cold.  While  I  was  chuckling  to 
myself  over  this,  and  picking  the  twigs  from  my  clothes, 
I  heard  the  pistol-like  crack  of  a  bullock  whip,  and  then, 
quite  near  at  hand,  the  cries  of  a  *  bullocky,'  as  they  called 
the  bullock-drivers  thereabout,  full  of  morning-time 
vehemence. 

'  Woa,  Darkey  !     Gee,  Roan  !     Baldy,  gee  !     Nigger  ! 

Strawberry  !     Gee,  now,  Punch  !     I  '11  y  well  trim 

you  in  a  minute,  me  gentleman.     Gee,  Baldy ;  ye  y 

cow,  you  !  ' 

It  was  thus  the  unseen  bushman  discoursed  to  his 
cattle,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  the  horns  of  his  leaders, 
swaying  slightly  in  their  yoke,  appeared  at  the  bend  of 
the  track,  the  bolt-heads  in  the  yoke  shining  like  bosses 
of  silver  in  the  slanting  rays  of  the  new-risen  sun.  Clearly 
the  wagon  had  been  loaded  overnight,  for  the  huge  tallow- 
wood  log  slung  on  it  could  hardly  have  been  placed  in  its 
bed  since  sun-up. 

'  I  'm  your y  man,  if  it 's  Milton  you  want,'  said  the 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  1 1 1 

driver  good-humouredly,   in  response  to  my  inquiries. 

'  I  'm  taking  this  stick  into  the  Milton  saw-mill.     y 

solid  stick,   eh  ?     My   oath,    yes ;    there 's  not  enough 

pipe  in  that  feller  to  stick  a  y  needle  in.    No,  he 

ought  to  measure  up  pretty  well,  I  reckon.'  A  pause  for 
expectoration,  and  then  :  '  Livin'  in  Milton  ?  ' 

4  No,'  I  told  him,  *  just  travelling  that  way.'  I  flat- 
tered myself  I  had  put  just  the  right  note  of  nonchalance 
into  what  I  knew  was  a  typically  familiar  sort  of  phrase. 
But  the  bullocky  eyed  me  curiously,  all  the  same,  and  I 
instantly  made  up  my  mind  to  part  company  with  him 
at  the  earliest  convenient  moment. 

'  You  travel y  light,  sonny,'  he  said  ;  '  but  I  sup- 
pose that 's  the  easiest y  way,  when  all 's  said.' 

1  Yes,'  I  agreed,  with  fluent  mendacity  ;  '  I  got  tired 
of  the  swag,  and  I  've  not  very  far  to  go  anyway.' 

'  Ah  !     Where  might  ye  be  makin'  for,  then  ?  ' 

At  this  point  I  realised  for  the  first  time  the  grave  dis- 
advantages of  redundance  in  speech,  of  unnecessary  ver- 
biage. There  had  been  no  earthly  need  for  my  last  words, 
and  now  that  my  fatal  fluency  had  found  me  out,  for  the 
life  of  me  I  could  not  think  of  the  name  of  a  likely  place. 
At  length,  with  clumsily  affected  carelessness,  I  had  to 
say,  '  Oh,  just  down  south  a  bit  from  Milton.' 

1  H'm  !  Port  Lawson  way,  like  ?  '  suggested  the  curious 
bullocky. 

1  Yes,  that 's  it,'  I  said  hurriedly.     '  Port  Lawson  way.' 

1  Ah,  well,  I  've  got  a  brother  works  in  the y  saw- 
mills there.  Ye  '11  maybe  know  him — Jim  Gray  ;  big, 
slab-sided  chap  he  is,  with  his  nose  sorter  twisted  like, 

where  a  y  brumby  colt  kicked  him  when  he  was  a 

kid.  y  good  thing  for  him  it  was  a  brumby,  or  un- 
shod, anyway  ;  he  'd  a'  bin  in  Queer  Street  else,  I  'm 
thinkin'.     Jever  meet  him  down  that  way  ?  ' 

I  admitted  that  I  never  had.  but  promised  to  look  out 
for  him. 

4  Aye,  ye  might,'  said  the  bullocky.    4  An',  if  ye  see  him, 


112   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

tell  him  ye  met  me — Bill's  my  name — Bill  Gray,  ye  see 

— an'  tell  him —     Oh,  tell  him  I  said  to  mind  his  y 

p's  an'  q's,  ye  know,  an'   be  good  to  his y  self.' 

I  readily  promised  that  I  would,  and  our  conversation 
lapsed  for  a  time,  while  Bill  Gray  filled  his  pipe,  cutting 
the  tobacco  on  the  ball  of  his  left  thumb  from  a  good-sized 
black  plug.  For  the  rest  of  our  walk  together,  I  used 
extreme  circumspection,  and  was  able  to  confine  our 
desultory  exchanges  to  such  safe  topics  as  the  bullocks, 
the  weather,  the  roads,  and  so  forth,  all  favourite  subjects 
with  bushmen.  And  then,  as  we  drew  near  the  one  street 
of  the  little  township,  there  was  the  saw-mill,  and  my 
opportunity  for  bidding  good-day  to  a  too  inquisitive 
companion. 

'  So  long,  sonny,'  said  he,  in  response  to  my  salutation. 

'  Take  care  of  your y  self.'     (His  favourite  adjective 

had  long  ceased  to  have  any  meaning  whatever  for  this 
good  fellow.  He  now  used  it  even  as  some  ladies  use  in- 
verted commas,  or  other  commas,  in  writing.  And  some- 
times, when  he  had  occasion  to  use  a  word  as  long  as,  say, 
*  impossible,'  he  would  actually  drag  in  the  meaningless 
expletive  as  an  interpolation  between  the  first  and  second 
syllables  of  the  longer  word,  as  though  he  felt  it  a  sinful 
waste  of  opportunities  to  allow  so  many  good  syllables  to 
pass  unburdened  by  a  single  enunciation  of  his  master 
word.) 

VIII 

The  freedom  of  the  open  road  was  infinitely  delightful 
to  me  after  the  incessant  task  work  of  St.  Peter's.  And 
perhaps  this,  quite  as  much  as  the  policy  of  getting  well 
away  from  the  Myall  Creek  district,  was  responsible  for 
the  fact  that  I  held  on  my  way,  with  never  a  pause  for 
work  of  any  sort,  through  a  whole  week.  My  lodging  at 
night  cost  me  nothing,  of  course ;  and  the  expenditure 
of  something  well  under  a  shilling  a  day  provided  a  far 
more  generous  dietary  than  that  to  which  St.  Peter's 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  118 

had  accustomed  mc.  I  began  to  lay  on  flesh,  and  to  feel 
strength  growing  in  me. 

Mere  living,  the  maintenance  of  existence,  has  always 
been  cheap  and  easy  in  Australia,  where  an  entirely  out- 
door life  involves  no  hardship  at  any  season.  This  fact 
has  no  doubt  played  an  important  part  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  Australian  national  character.  The  Aus- 
tralian national  character  is  the  English  national  char- 
acter of,  say,  seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  subjected  to 
isolation  from  all  foreign  influences,  and  to  general  con- 
ditions much  easier  and  milder  than  those  of  England  ; 
given  unlimited  breathing-space,  and  freed  from  all 
pressure  of  confined  population ;  cut  off  also,  to  a 
very  great  extent,  from  the  influence  of  tradition  and 
ancient  institutions.  For  the  lover  of  our  British 
stock  and  the  student  of  racial  problems,  I  always 
think  that  Australia  and  its  people  offer  a  field  of 
unique  interest. 

I  did  not  come  upon  Jim  Gray,  the  slab-sided  one, 
in  Port  Lawson,  so  was  unable  to  bid  him  mind  his  en- 
sanguined p's  and  q's.  Indeed,  up  to  this  point,  I  sternly 
repressed  my  social  instincts,  and  refrained,  so  far  as 
might  be,  from  entering  into  talk  with  any  one.  But 
after  the  third  day  I  began  to  feel  that  my  freedom  was 
assured,  and  that  the  chances  of  meeting  any  one  from 
the  Orphanage  neighbourhood  were  too  remote  to  be  worth 
considering.  My  tramping  became  then  so  much  the 
more  enjoyable,  for  the  reason  that  I  chatted  with  all 
and  sundry  who  showed  sociable  inclinations,  and  at 
that  time  this  included  practically  every  wayfarer  one 
met  in  rural  Australia.  (Then-  has  been  no  great  change 
in  this  respect.) 

'The  curse  <>'  this  country,  my  sonny  boy,'  said  one 
red-bearded  traveller  whom  I  met  and  walked  with  for 
some  miles,  '  is  the  near-enough  system.  It 's  a  great 
country,  all  right ;  whips  o'  room,  good  land,  good  climate, 
an'  all  the  like  o'  that  ;    but,  you  mark  my  words,  the 

H 


114   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

curse  of  it  is  the  "  near-enough  "  system — that  an'  the 
booze,  o'  course ;  but  mainly  it 's  the  "  near-enough  " 
system,  from  the  nail  in  your  trousers  in  place  of  a  brace 
button  to  the  saplin's  tied  wi'  green-hide  in  place  of  a  gate, 
an'  the  bloomin'  agitator  in  parliament  in  place  of  a  gentle- 
man. It 's  "  near-enough  "  that  crabs  us,  every  time. 
Look  at  me  !  I  owned  a  big  store  in  Kempsey  one  time. 
You  wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  me,  would  ye  ?  Well, 
an'  I  didn't  booze,  either.  Rut  it  was  "  near-enough  " 
in  the  accounts,  an'  "  near-enough  "  in  the  buyin',  an' 
"  near-enough "  in  the  prices,  an' — here  I  am,  barely 
makin'  wages — worse  wages  than  I  paid  counter  hands — 
cuttin'  sleepers.  But  I  get  me  tucker  out  of  it,  an'  me 
bitter  'baccy,  an'  that ;  an' — well,  it 's  "  near-enough," 
an'  so  I  stick  at  it.' 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  morning  of  delicious  brightness 
and  virginal  freshness  that  I  reached  the  irregularly 
spreading  outskirts  of  Dursley,  a  pretty  little  town  in 
Gloucester  county,  the  appearance  of  which,  as  I  ap- 
proached it  from  the  highest  point  of  the  long  ridge  upon 
whose  lower  slopes  it  lay,  appealed  to  me  most  strongly. 
Though  still  small  Dursley  is  an  old  town,  for  Australia. 
The  figures  against  it  in  the  gazetteers  are  not  imposing : 
'  School  of  Arts,  1800  vols.,  etc. — '  But,  even  in  the 
late  'seventies,  it  possessed  that  sort  of  smoothness,  that 
comparative  trimness  and  humanised  air  of  comfort,  which 
only  the  lapse  of  years  can  give.  Your  new  settlement 
cannot  have  this  attraction,  no  matter  how  prosperous 
or  well  laid  out ;  and  it  is  a  quality  which  must  always 
appeal  especially  to  the  native  of  an  old,  much-handled 
land,  such  as  England.  A  newcomer  from  old  Gloucester 
might  have  thought  Dursley  raw  and  new-looking  enough, 
with  its  galvanised  iron  roofs  and  water-tanks,  and  its 
painted  wooden  houses,  fences,  and  verandah  posts. 
But  in  such  a  matter  my  standards  had  become  largely 
Australian,  no  doubt.  At  all  events,  as  I  skirted  the 
orchard  fence  of  the  most  outlying  residence  of  Dursley,. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  115 

I  remember  saying  to  myself  aloud,  as  my  habit  was 
since  I  had  taken  to  the  road  : 

'  Now  this  Dursley  is  the  sort  of  place  I  'd  like  to  get  a 
job  in.     I  'd  like  to  live  here,  till ' 

4  H'm  !  Outer  the  mouths  o'  babes  and  suckerlings  t 
Tssp  !  Well,  I  admire  your  perspicashon,  youngfellerme- 
lad,  anyhow,  an'  you  can  say  I  said  so.' 

At  the  first  sound  of  these  words,  apparently  launched 
at  me  from  out  the  Ewigkeit,  I  spun  round  on  my  bare  heels 
in  the  loamy  sand  of  the  track,  with  a  moving  picture 
thought  in  my  mind  of  little  gnomes  in  pointed  caps  and 
leathern  jerkins,  with  diminutive  miner's  picks  in  their 
hands,  and  a  fancy  for  the  occasional  bestowal  of  magical 
gifts  upon  wandering  mortals.  The  picture  was  gone 
in  a  second,  of  course  ;  and  I  glared  at  the  orchard  fence 
as  though  that  should  make  it  transparent. 

4  Higher  up,  sonny  !  Think  of  your  arboracious  an- 
cestors, an'  that  sorter  thing.' 

This  time  my  ears  gave  me  truer  guidance  as  to  the 
direction  from  which  the  voice  came,  and,  looking  up, 
I  saw  a  man  reclining  at  his  ease  upon  a  'possum-skin  rug, 
which  was  spread  on  a  sort  of  platform  set  between  the 
forked  branches  of  a  giant  Australian  cedar,  fully  thirty 
feet  from  the  ground,  and  higher  than  the  chimneys  of 
the  house  near  by.  The  man's  head  and  face  seemed  to 
me  as  round  and  red  as  any  apple,  and  what  I  could  see 
of  his  figure  suggested  at  least  a  comfortable  tendency  to 
stoutness.  Whilst  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  who 
would  be  described  as  an  old  man,  or  even  elderly,  the 
owner  of  the  mysterious  voice  and  round,  red  face  had 
clearly  passed  that  stage  at  which  he  would  be  spoken 
of  by  a  stranger  as  a  young  man. 

4  He  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  a  tree-climber,'  I  thought. 
The  girth  of  the  great  cedar  prevented  my  seeing  the 
species  of  ladder-stairway  which  had  been  built  against  its 
far  side.  I  had  breakfasted  as  the  sun  rose  this  fine 
Sunday  morning,  and  walked  no  more  than  a  couple  of 


116   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

miles  since,  so  that  the  majority  of  Dursley's  inhabitants 
had  probably  not  begun  to  think  of  breakfast  yet.  My 
'  arboracious '  gentleman,  anyhow,  was  still  in  his  pyjamas, 
the  pattern  and  colouring  of  which  were,  for  that  period, 
quite  remarkably  daring  and  bright. 

'  Well,  young  peripatater,  I  suppose  you  're  wondering 
now  if  I  've  got  a  tail,  hey  ?  No,  sir,  I  am  fundamentally 
innocent — virginacious,  in  fact.  But,  all  the  same,  if 
you  like  to  just  go  on  peripatating  till  you  get  to  my  side 
gate,  and  then  come  straight  along  to  this  arboracious 
retreat,  I  will  a  tale  unfold  that  may  appeal  greatly  to 
your  matutinatal  fancy.  So  peri  along,  youngf ellermelad, 
an'  I  '11  come  down  to  meet  ye.' 

'  All  right,  sir,  I  '11  come,'  I  told  him.  And  those  were 
the  first  words  I  spoke  to  him,  though  he  seemed  already 
to  have  said  a  good  deal  to  me. 

By  this  time  I  had  become  seized  with  the  idea  that 
here  was  what  is  called  '  a  character.'  I  had,  as  it  were, 
caught  on  to  the  whimsical  oddity  of  the  man,  and  liked 
it.  Indeed,  he  would  have  been  a  singularly  dull  dog  who 
failed  to  recognise  this  man's  quaint  good-humour  as 
something  jolly  and  kindly  and  well-meaning.  The 
gentleman  spoke  by  the  aid,  not  alone  of  his  mouth,  but  of 
his  small,  bright,  twinkling  eyes,  his  twitching,  almost 
hairless  brows,  his  hands  and  shoulders,  and  his  whole, 
rosy,  clean-shaved,  multitudinously  lined,  puckered,  and 
dimpled  face.  And  then  his  words ;  the  extraordinary 
manner  in  which  he  twisted  and  juggled  with  the  longer 
and  less  familiar  of  them — arboreal,  peripatetic,  matu- 
tinal, and  the  like  !  He  had  an  entirely  independent 
and  original  way  of  pronouncing  very  many  words,  and 
of  converting  certain  phrases,  such  as  '  young  fellow  my 
lad,'  into  a  single  word  of  many  syllables.  I  never  met 
any  one  who  could  so  clearly  convey  hyphens  (or  dispense 
with  them)  by  intonation. 

Having  passed  through  a  small  gateway,  I  skirted  the 
side   of   a   comfortable-looking  house   of   the   spreading, 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  117 

bungalow  type,  with  wide  verandahs  ;  and  so,  by  way  of  a 
shaded  path,  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  big  cedar,  just  as 
the  rosy-faced  gentleman  reached  the  ground  from  his 
stairway. 

4  Well-timed,  young  peripatatcr,'  he  said,  with  a  chuck- 
ling smile.  I  noticed  as  he  reached  the  earth  that  he 
walked  with  a  peculiar,  rolling  motion  of  the  body.  He 
certainly  was  stout.  There  were  no  angles  about  him 
anywhere,  nothing  but  rotundity.  Withal,  and  despite 
the  curious,  rotary  gait,  there  was  a  suggestion  of  quick- 
ness and  of  well-balanced  lightness  about  all  his  move- 
ments. His  hands  and  feet  I  thought  quite  remarkably 
small.  There  was  a  short  section  of  the  bole  of  a  large 
tree,  with  a  flattened  base,  lying  on  the  ground  near  the 
stairway.  The  gentleman  subsided  upon  this  airily,  as 
though  it  had  been  made  of  eider-down,  and,  crossing  his 
pyjamed  legs,  beamed  upon  me,  where  I  stood  before  him. 

1  Peripatacious  by  habit,  what  might  your  name  be, 
youngfellermelad  ?  ' 

I  told  him,  and  he  repeated  it  after  me,  twice,  with 
a  distinct  licking  of  his  lips,  suggestive  of  the  act  of 
deliberate  wine-tasting. 

4  Good.  Yes.  Ah !  Nicholas  Frcydon,  Nick  to  his 
friends,  no  doubt.  Quite  a  mellifluant  name.  Nicholas 
Freydon.  Tssp  !  Very  good.  You  'd  hardly  think  now 
that  my  name  was  George  Perkins,  would  you  ?  Don't 
seem  exactly  right,  does  it  ? — not  Perkins.  But  that 's 
what  it  is  ;  and  it 's  a  significacious  name,  too,  in  Dursley, 
let  me  tell  you.  But  that 's  because  of  the  meaning  I  'vc 
given  to  it.  But  for  that,  it 's  certainly  an  unnatural 
sort  of  a  name  for  me.  Perkins  is  a  name  for  a  thin  man, 
with  a  pointed  nose,  no  chin,  a  wisp  of  hair  over  his  fore- 
head, and  an  apron.  Starch,  rice,  tapioca  :  a  farinatuous 
name,  of  course.  But  there  it  is  ;  it  happens  to  be  the 
name  of  Dursley's  Omnigerentual  and  Omnifcracious 
Agent,  you  sec  ;  and  that 's  me.  Tssp  !  Wharcjcrcome- 
from,  Niekperry,  or  Peripatacious  Nick  ?  ' 


118   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

The  idea  of  using  precautions  with  or  attempting  to 
deceive  this  rosily  rotund  '  character  '  seemed  far-fetched 
and  absurd.  I  not  only  told  him  I  came  from  Myall  Creek, 
but  also  named  the  Orphanage. 

'  Ah  !  I  'm  an  orphantulatory  one  myself.  You  ab- 
squatulated, I  presume  ;  a  levantular  movement  at  mid- 
night— ran  away,  hey  ?  ' 

I  admitted  it,  and  Mr.  Perkins  nodded  in  a  pleased  way, 
as  though  discovering  an  accomplishment  in  me. 

'  That 's  what  I  did,  too  ;  not  from  an  orphanage,  but 
from  the  paternal  roof  and  shop.  My  father  was  a 
pedestrialatory  specialist,  a  shoemaker,  in  fact,  and 
brought  me  up  for  that  profession.  But  I  gave  up  pedes- 
triality,  finding  omniferaciousness  more  in  my  line. 
Matter  of  temperment,  of  course — inward,  like  that,  with 
an  awl,  you  know,  or  outward,  like  that ' — he  swung  his 
fat  arms  wide — '  as  an  omnigerentual  man  of  affairs  : 
an  Agent.  I  'm  naturally  omnigerentual ;  my  father  was 
awlicular  or  gimletular — like  a  centre-bit,  y'  know.  Tssp  ! 
So  you  like  Dursley,  hey  ?  Little  town  takes  your  fancy 
as  you  see  it  from  the  ridge  ?  Kinduv  cuddlesome  and 
umbradewus,  isn't  it  ?  Yes,  I  felt  that  way  myself 
when  I  came  here  looking  for  pedestrial  work — repairs 
a  speciality,  y'  know.     Whatsorterjobjerwant  ?  ' 

I  found  that  Mr.  Perkins  usually  wound  up  his  remarks 
with  a  question  which,  irrespective  of  its  length,  was 
generally  made  to  sound  like  one  word.  The  habit 
affected  me  as  the  application  of  a  spur  affects  a  well- 
fed  and  not  unwilling  steed.  I  did  not  resent  it,  but 
it  made  me  jump.  On  this  occasion  I  explained  to 
the  best  of  my  ability  that  I  wanted  whatever  sort  of 
job  I  could  get,  but  preferably  one  that  would  permit 
of  my  doing  a  little  work  on  my  own  account  of  an 
evening. 

'  Ha  !  Applicacious  and  industrial — bettermentatious 
ambitions,  hey  ?  Quite  right.  No  good  sticking  to  the 
awlicular  if  you  've  anything  of  the  embraceshunist  in 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  119 

you.'  He  embraced  his  own  ample  bosom  with  wide-flung 
arms,  as  a  London  cabman  might  on  a  frosty  morning. 
*  Man  is  naturally  multivorous — when  he  's  not  a  vege- 
table.    Howjerliketerworkferme  ?  ' 

1  Very  much  indeed,'  said  I,  rising  sharply  to  the  spur. 

4  H'm  !  Tssp  ! '  It  is  not  easy  to  convey  in  writing  any 
adequate  idea  of  this  '  Tssp  '  sound.  It  seemed  to  be 
produced  by  pressing  the  tongue  against  the  front  teeth, 
the  jaws  being  closed  and  the  lips  parted,  and  then  sharply 
closing  the  lips  while  withdrawing  the  tongue  inward. 
I  am  enabled  to  furnish  this  minutiae  by  reason  of  the  fact 
that  I  deliberately  practised  Mr.  Perkins's  favourite 
habit  before  a  looking-glass,  to  see  how  it  was  done. 
This  was  on  the  day  after  our  first  meeting.  The  habit 
was  subtly  characteristic  of  the  man,  because  it  was  so 
suggestive  of  gustatory  enthusiasm.  He  was  for  ever 
savouring  the  taste  of  life  and  of  words,  especially  of 
words. 

4  Well,  as  it  happeneth,  Nickperry,  your  desire  for  a 
job  is  curiously  synchronaeious  with  my  need  of  a  handy 
lad.  My  handy  lad  stopped  being  a  lad  yesterday  morn- 
ing, was  married  before  dinner,  and  is  now  away  con- 
nubialising — honeymoon.  After  which  he  goes  into 
partnership  with  his  father-in-law — greens  an'  fish.  It 's 
generally  a  mistake  to  make  partnerial  arrangements 
with  relations,  Nickperry — apt  to  bring  about  a  com- 
bustuous  staterthings.     So  I  wanterandyladyersee.' 

4  Yes,  sir.' 

4  My  name  is  Mister  Perkins,  Nickperry,  not  "  Sir."  ' 

4  Yes,  Mr.  Perkins.' 

4  That 's  better.  I  know  you  don't  mean  to  be  ser- 
vileacious,  but  that  English  44  sir  "  is — we  don't  like  it  in 
Australia,  Nickperry.  You  are  from  the  Old  Country, 
aren't  you  ?  ' 

I  admitted  it,  and  marvelled  how  Mr.  Perkins  could 
have  known  it. 

4  H'm  !     Tssp  !     Fine  ol'  institootion  the  Old  Country, 


120   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

but  cert'nly  a  bit  servileacious.  D'jerknowhowtermilker- 
cow?' 

'  I  Ve  been  milking  four,  night  and  morning,  for  over 
two  years,  s' — Mister  Perkins,'  I  answered,  with  some 
pride. 

'  Good  for  yez,  Nickperry.     Whataboutgardening  ?  ' 

*  I  worked  in  the  garden  every  day  at  the  Orphanage, 
s' — Mister  Perkins.' 

Mr.  Perkins  smiled  even  more  broadly  than  usual. 
'  It 's  "  Mister  "  not  "  Smister  "  Perkins,  Nickperry.' 

I  smiled,  and  felt  the  colour  rise  in  my  face.  (How  I 
used  to  curse  that  girlish  blushing  habit !) 

'  Tssp  !  Well,  I  see  you  can  take  a  joke,  anyway  ;  an' 
that 's  even  more  important,  really,  than  horticulturous 
knowledge.  Tssp  !  There  's  my  breakfast  bell,  an'  I'm 
not  dressed.     Jus'  come  along  this  way,  Nickperry.' 

In  the  neatly  paved  yard  at  the  back  of  the  house  stood 
a  well-conditioned  cow,  of  the  colour  of  a  new-husked 
horse  chestnut.  She  was  peacefully  chewing  her  cud, 
oblivious  quite  to  the  flight  of  time.  Mr.  Perkins  ambled 
swiftly  into  the  house,  rolling  out  again,  as  it  seemed 
within  the  second,  as  though  he  had  bounced  against  an 
inner  wall,  and  handing  me  a  milk-pail. 

'  Stool  over  there.  Jus'  milk  the  cow  for  me,  Nick- 
perry.    Seeyagaindreckly  ! ' 

And  he  was  gone,  having  floated  within  doors,  like  a 
huge  ball  of  thistledown  on  well-oiled  castors.  Next 
moment  I  heard  his  mellow,  rotund  voice  again,  several 
rooms  away. 

'  Sossidge  !  Sossidge  !  Whajerdoin'  ?  '  Then  a  pause. 
Then — '  Keep  brekfus'  three  minutes,  Sossidge  ;  I  'm 
not  dressed.' 

With  a  mind  somewhat  confused,  I  turned  to  the  red 
cow,  and  my  first  task  for  Mr.  Perkins.  Bella — I  learned 
subsequently  that  the  cow,  when  a  young  heifer,  had 
been  given  this  name  by  Mr.  Perkins,  because  she  dis- 
tinguished herself  by  bellowing  incessantly  for  a  whole 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  121 

night — proved  a  singularly  amiable  beast.  I  was  light- 
handed,  and  a  fair  milker,  I  believe.  Still,  my  hands 
were  strange  to  Bella  ;  yet  she  gave  down  her  milk  most 
generously,  and,  though  standing  in  the  open,  without 
bail  or  leg-rope,  never  stirred  till  the  foaming  pail  was 
three  parts  full,  and  her  udder  dry.  It  was  something  of 
a  revelation  to  me,  for  our  cows  at  St.  Peter's  had  been 
rough  scrub  cattle,  and  had  been  left  to  pick  up  their  own 
living  for  the  most  part ;  whereas  Bella  was  aldcrmanic, 
a  monument  of  placid  satiety. 

I  very  carefully  deposited  the  pail  inside  the  scullery 
entrance,  and  withdrew  then  to  a  respectful  distance,  with 
Bella.  Would  this  amazing  Mr.  Perkins  engage  me  ? 
There  was  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  I  hoped  he  would. 
I  had  seen  practically  nothing  of  the  place,  and  my  im- 
pressions of  it  must  all  have  been  produced  by  the  per- 
sonality of  its  owner,  I  suppose.  But  it  did  seem  to  me 
that  this  establishment  possessed  an  atmosphere  of  cheery 
kindliness  and  jollity  such  as  I  had  never  before  found 
about  any  residence.  The  contrast  between  this  place 
and  St.  Peter's  was  extraordinarily  striking.  I  wondered 
what  Sister  Agatha  would  have  made  of  Mr.  Perkins, 
or  he  of  Sister  Agatha.  '  Acidulacious  '  was  the  word  he 
would  have  applied  to  Sister  Agatha,  I  thought,  with  a 
boy's  readiness  in  mimicry  ;  and  I  chuckled  happily  to 
myself  in  the  thinking. 

IX 

While  I  stood  in  the  yard  cogitating,  a  woman  whose 
white-spotted  blue  dress  was  for  the  most  part  covered 
by  a  very  white  apron  emerged  from  the  scullery  door, 
holding  one  hand  over  her  eyes  to  shade  them  from  the 
morning  sun. 

*  Ha  !  '  she  said,  in  a  managing  tone  ;  '  so  you  're  the 
new  lad,  are  you  ?  '  I  smiled  somewhat  bashfully,  this 
being  a  question  I  was  not  yet  in  a  position  to  answer 


122   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

definitely.  '  Well,  you  're  to  come  into  breakfast  anyhow, 
and  be  sure  and  rub  your  boots  on  the —  Oh,  you  haven't 
any.  Well,  rub  your  feet,  then.  Come  on  !  I  must  see 
to  my  fire.' 

So  I  followed  her  through  the  scullery  (a  spacious  and 
airy  place)  into  the  kitchen,  having  first  carefully  rubbed 
the  dust  off  my  horny  soles  on  the  door-mat.  And  then, 
with  a  boy's  ready  adaptability  in  the  matter  of  meals,  I 
gave  a  good  account  of  myself  behind  a  plate  of  bacon 
and  eggs,  with  plentiful  bread  and  butter  and  tea,  though 
I  had  broken  my  fast  in  the  bush  an  hour  or  two  earlier 
by  polishing  off  the  sketchy  remains  of  the  previous  night's 
supper,  washed  down  by  water  from  a  bright  creek. 

Domestic  capability  was  the  quality  most  apparent  in 
my  breakfast  companion.  Her  age,  I  should  say,  was 
nearer  fifty  than  forty,  but  she  was  exceedingly  well- 
preserved  ;  and  she  was  called,  as  she  explained  when  we 
sat  down,  Mrs.  Gabbitas.  That  in  itself,  I  reflected,  pro- 
bably recommended  her  warmly  to  Mr.  Perkins.  (I 
guessed  in  advance  that  he  might  refer  to  the  lady  as  the 
Gabbitacious  one  ;  and  he  did,  more  than  once,  in  my 
hearing.) 

'  Nick  Freydon  's  your  name,  I  'm  told.  Oh,  well, 
that 's  all  right  then.' 

Mrs.  Gabbitas  always  spoke,  not  alone  as  one  having 
authority,  but,  and  above  all,  as  one  who  managed  all 
affairs,  things,  and  people  within  her  reach,  as  indeed 
she  did  to  a  great  extent.  A  most  capable  and  manag- 
ing woman  was  Mrs.  Gabbitas.  I  adopted  an  air  of 
marked  deference  towards  her,  I  remember  ;  in  part  from 
motives  of  policy,  and  partly  too  because  her  capa- 
bility really  impressed  me.  Before  the  bacon  was  finished 
we  had  become  quite  friendly.  I  had  learned  that  my 
hostess  had  a  full  upper  set  of  artificial  teeth — quite  a 
distinction  in  those  days — and  that  on  a  certain  occasion, 
I  forget  now  at  what  exact  period  of  her  life,  she  had 
earned  undying  fame  by  being  called  upon  by  name,  from 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  123 

the  pulpit  of  her  chapel,  to  rise  in  her  place  among  the 
congregation  and  sing  as  a  solo  the  anthem  beginning : 
4  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  !  '  I  gathered  now 
and  later  that  this  remarkable  event  formed  in  a  sense 
the  pivot  upon  which  Mrs.  Gabbitas's  career  turned. 
Having  spent  all  her  life  in  Australia,  she  had  not  been 
presented  at  Court ;  but,  alone,  unaccompanied,  and 
from  her  place  among  the  chapel  congregation,  she  had, 
in  answer  to  the  minister's  call,  made  one  service  historic 
by  singing  '  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  !  '  It 
was  a  pious  and  pleasant  memory,  and  I  admit  the  story 
of  it  did  add  to  her  dignity  in  my  eyes.  Her  false  teeth, 
though  admittedly  a  distinction  at  that  period,  did  not 
precisely  add  to  her  dignity.  They  were  somehow  too 
mobile,  too  responsive  in  front  to  the  forces  of  gravitation, 
for  a  talkative  woman. 

4  Has  he  given  you  a  name  yet  ?  '  she  asked,  as  we  rose 
from  the  table,  giving  her  head  a  jerk  as  she  spoke  in 
the  direction  of  the  little  pantry,  in  which  I  gathered 
there  was  a  revolving  hatch  communicating  with  the 
dining-room. 

*  Well,  he  called  me  "  Nickpcrry,"  '  I  said,  4  or  "  Peri- 
patacious  Nick."  ' 

4  Ah  !  Yes,  that  sounds  like  one  of  his,'  she  said,  appar- 
ently weighing  the  name  and  myself,  not  without  ap- 
proval. 4  There  's  nothing  nor  nobody  he  hasn't  got  some 
name  for.  He  don't  miscall  me  to  me  face,  for  I  'd  allow 
no  person  to  do  such.  But  in  speakin'  to  Missis,  I  've 
heard  him  refer  to  me  with  some  such  nonsensical  words 
as  44  Gabbitular "  and  44  Gabbitaccous,"  or  some  such 
rubbish,  although  no  one  wouldn't  ever  think  such  a  thing 
of  me — nobody  but  him,  that  is.  But  he  means  no  harm, 
y'  know.  There  's  no  more  vice  in  the  man  than — than 
in  Bella  there.' 

She  pointed  with  a  wooden  spoon  toward  the  open 
window,  through  which  wc  could  sec  the  red  cow,  still 
contentedly  chewing  over  the  memories  of  her  last  meal. 


124   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

4  No,  there  's  no  harm  in  him,  or  you  may  be  sure  I 
wouldn't  be  here  ;  but  he  's  a  great  character,  is  Mr. 
Perkins ;  a  regler  case,  he  is,  an'  no  mistake.  Well,  this 
won't  get  my  kitchen  cleaned  up — and  Sunday  morning, 
too  !  You  might  take  out  that  bucket  of  ashes  for  me. 
You  '11  find  the  heap  where  they  go  down  in  the  little 
yard  behind  the  stable.  There  now !  That 's  what 
comes  o'  talkin' !  If  I  didden  forget  to  ask  a  blessin',  an' 
you  an  orphan,  too,  I  believe !  F'what  we  've  received, 
Lor',  make  us  truly  thangful  cry-say-carmen —  Off  you 
go!' 

Her  eyes  were  screwed  tightly  shut  while  the  words  of 
the  gabbled  invocation  passed  her  lips,  and  opened  widely 
as,  with  its  last  mysterious  syllables,  she  dropped  the 
wooden  spoon  she  had  been  holding  and  turned  to  her 
fire.  The  fire  was  always  '  my '  fire  to  worthy  Mrs.  Gab- 
bitas.  So  was  the  kitchen,  for  that  matter,  the  scullery, 
the  pantry,  and  all  the  things  that  therein  were.  Indeed, 
she  frequently  spoke  of  '  my '  dining-room  table,  bed- 
rooms, silver,  front  hall,  windows,  and  the  like.  Even 
the  meals  served  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Perkins  were,  until 
eaten,  '  my  dining-room  breakfast,'  '  my  dining-room  tea,' 
and  so  forth. 

On  my  way  back  from  the  ash-heap  with  Mrs.  Gabbitas's 
bucket,  I  almost  collided  with  Mr.  Perkins,  as  he  rolled 
swiftly  and  silently  into  view  from  round  the  end  of  the 
rustic  pergola,  between  the  house  yard  and  the  big  cedar. 

'  Aha  !  The  Peripatacious  one  !  Tssp  !  Yes.  Mrs. 
Perkins  wants  a  word  with  you,  youngfellermelad.  Come 
on  this  way.     She  's  on  the  front  verandah.' 

I  found  myself  involuntarily  seeking  to  emulate  Mr. 
Perkins's  remarkable  method  of  locomotion.  But  I 
might  as  well  have  sought  to  mimic  an  albatross  or  a 
balloon.  It  was  not  only  his  splendid  rotundity  which  I 
lacked.  The  difference  went  far  beyond  that.  He  had 
oiled  castors  running  on  patent  ball  bearings,  and  I  was 
but  the  ordinary  pedestrian  youth. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  125 

We  found  Mrs.  Perkins  reclining  on  a  couch  on  the 
front  verandah,  a  very  gaily  coloured  dust-rug  covering 
the  lower  part  of  her  figure.  Like  many  people  in  Aus- 
tralia she  could  hardly  be  classified  socially ;  or,  per- 
haps, I  should  say  she  did  not  possess  in  any  marked 
form  the  characteristics  which  in  England  are  associated 
with  this  or  that  social  grade.  If  there  was  nothing  of 
the  aristocrat  about  her,  it  might  be  said  that  she  was  not 
in  the  least  typically  '  middle-class  '  ;  and  I  am  sure 
the  severest  critic  would  have  hesitated  to  say  that  hers 
were  the  manners,  disposition,  or  outlook  of  any  '  lower ' 
class.  Yet  she  had  married  an  itinerant  cobbler,  or  at 
best  a  '  pedestrialatory  specialist,'  and,  I  am  sure,  without 
the  smallest  sense  of  taking  a  derogatory  step. 

Mrs.  Perkins  was  the  more  a  revelation  to  me  perhaps, 
because,  as  it  happened,  Mrs.  Gabbitas  had  said  nothing 
whatever  about  her.  I  learned  presently  that  she  had 
not  stood  upon  her  feet  for  more  than  ten  years.  I  was 
never  told  the  exact  nature  of  the  disease  from  which  she 
suffered,  but  I  know  she  had  lost  permanently  the  use  of 
her  legs,  and  that  she  was  not  allowed  to  sit  up  in  a  chair 
for  more  than  an  hour  at  a  time.  She  never  moved  any- 
where without  her  husband.  He  carried  her  from  one 
room  to  another,  and  at  times  to  different  parts  of  the 
garden  ;  always  very  skilfully,  and  without  the  slightest 
appearance  of  exertion.  I  think  it  likely  she  did  not 
weigh  more  than  six  or  seven  stone.  Whenever  I  saw 
her  carried,  there  was  always  draped  about  her  a  gaily 
coloured  rug  or  large  shawl ;  and  she  was  for  ever  smiling, 
or  actually  laughing,  or  making  some  quaintly  humorous 
little  remark.  I  wondered  sometimes  if  she  had  borrowed 
her  playfulness  in  speech  from  her  husband,  or  if  he  had 
borrowed  from  her.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  met  a  happier 
pair. 

4  So  here  you  are  I  '  she  said,  as  we  drew  near.  Her 
tone  suggested  that  my  coming  were  the  arrival  of  a  very 
welcome  and  long-looked-for  guest.     '  You  sec,  Nick,  I 


126   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

am  so  lazy  that  I  never  go  to  any  one ;  and  people  are  so 
kind  that  every  one  comes  to  me,  sooner  or  later.' 

I  experienced  a  desire  to  do  something  graceful  and 
chivalrous,  and  did  nothing,  I  suspect,  but  grin  awk- 
wardly and  shuffle  my  toes  in  the  dust.  It  seemed  to  me 
clumsy  and  rude  to  stand  erect  before  this  crippled  little 
lady,  yet  impossible  to  adopt  any  other  attitude.  Mr. 
Perkins  had  subsided,  softly  as  a  down  cushion,  on  the 
edge  of  the  verandah.  But  he  had  no  angles,  and  I  had 
no  curves.  Mr.  Perkins  removed  his  hat  and  caressingly 
polished  that  glistening  orb,  his  head,  with  a  large  rain- 
bow-hued  handkerchief. 

'  You  see,  Insect,'  he  said,  beaming  upon  his  wife,  '  this 
young  feller,  Nickperry,  an  orphan tual  lad,  as  I  explained, 
has  taken  a  fancy  to  Dursley.' 

4  And  you  've  taken  a  fancy  to  Nickperry,  I  suppose — 
as  you  call  him.' 

The  master  waved  his  fat  arms  to  demonstrate  his 
aloofness  from  fancies.  *  Well,  we  want  a  new  handy 
lad,'  he  said  ;  *  and  this  peripatacious  young  chap  comes 
strolling  along  just  as  Bella  wants  milking.  The  Gab- 
bitual  one  says  he  's  all  right.'  This  is  an  elaborate  stage 
aside. 

'  And  how  did  Bella  behave,  Nick  ?  '  asked  the  mistress. 

'  She  gave  down  her  milk  very  nicely — madam,'  I  said, 
conscious  of  a  blush  over  the  matter  of  addressing  this 
little  lady. 

'  Merely  a  passing  weakness  for  the  servileacious,  in- 
herited from  feudalising  ancestors,'  said  Mr.  Perkins  in  an 
explanatory  tone  to  his  wife.  And  then  to  me  :  '  This 
is  Missis  Perkins,  Nickperry,  not  "  Madam."  When  you 
want  to  speak  to  the  Missis,  you  must  always  come  and 
find  her,  because  she  don't  get  about  much,  do  you,  Pig- 
an'-Whistle  ?  ' 

One  of  the  points  of  difference  between  husband  and 
wife,  in  their  spoken  whimsicalities,  was  that  the  man  had 
no  sense  of  shame  and  the  wife  had.     Mr.  Perkins  was 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  127 

no  respecter  of  persons.  He  would  have  addressed  his 
wife  as  '  Blow-fly,'  or  '  Sossidge,'  or  '  Piggins,'  or  by 
any  of  the  ridiculous  names  of  the  sort  that  he  affected,  in 
the  presence  of  the  queen  or  his  own  handy  lad.  I  have 
overheard  similar  expressions  of  playful  ribaldry  upon 
his  wife's  lips  many  a  time,  but  never  when  I  was  ob- 
viously and  officially  in  their  presence. 

4  And  what  about  pay,  Nickpcrry  ?  How  do  you 
stand  now  on  the  wages  question  ?  What  did  the 
Drooper  start  on,  Whizz  ?  '  This  last  question  was 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Perkins,  whose  real  name,  as  I 
learned  later — never  once  heard  upon  her  husband's 
lips — was  Isabel. 

1  Eight  shillings,'  replied  Mrs.  Perkins.  '  But,  of 
course,  wages  have  risen  a  good  bit  since  then.' 

4  Yes,  yes ;  the  gas  of  the  agitators  does  sometimes 
serve  to  inflate  wages  ;  I  '11  say  that  for  the  beggars. 
What  do  you  say,  Nickpcrry  ?  ' 

4  Well,  si— Mister  Perkins ' 

1  He  always  calls  me  *'  Smister."  It 's  a  friendly  way 
they  have  in  England,  like  the  eye-glass  and  the  turned- 
up  trousers.' 

In  her  smile  Mrs.  Perkins  managed  to  convey  merri- 
ment, sympathy  for  me  as  the  person  chaffed,  and  humor- 
ous disapproval  of  her  husband.  I  would  gladly  have 
worked  for  her  for  nothing,  for  admiration  of  her  bright 
eyes. 

4  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  'd  be  willing  to  work  for 
whatever  you  liked,  till  you  saw  whether  I  suited  you  or 
not,'  I  managed  to  explain. 

Mrs.  Perkins  nodded  approvingly,  and  her  husband 
said  :  4  That 's  a  very  fair  offer.  You  have  an  engagious 
way  with  you,  Nickperry  ;  and  so  we  '11  engage  you 
at  ten  bob  and  all  found  for  a  start.  How  's  that, 
Whizkcrs  ?  ' 

The  mistress  assented  pleasantly,  and  added  :  4  You  '11 
tell  Mrs.  Gabbitas  to  sec  to  the  room,  George,  won't  you, 


128   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

and — and  to  give  Nickperry  what  he  needs  ?     She  will 
understand.     I  dare  say  he  'd  like  a  bath.' 

I  blushed  red-hot  at  this,  but  Mrs.  Perkins  kindly  re- 
frained from  looking  my  way,  and  the  interview  ended. 
Then,  like  a  dinghy  in  the  wake  of  a  galleon,  I  followed 
my  new  employer  to  the  rearward  parts  of  the  establish- 
ment. 


I  used  to  tell  Heron,  and  others  who  came  into  my  later 
life,  that  the  happiest  days  I  ever  knew  were  the  '  ten 
bob  a  week  and  all  found  '  days  of  my  handy-lad  time. 
It  was  very  likely  true,  I  think  ;  though  really  it  is  next 
door  to  impossible  for  any  man  to  tell  which  period  in  his 
life  has  been  the  more  happy ;  and  especially  is  this  so 
in  the  case  of  the  type  of  man  who  finds  more  interest  in 
the  past  than  in  the  future.  The  other  side  of  the  road 
always  will  be  the  cleaner,  the  trees  on  the  far  side  of  the 
hill  will  always  be  the  greener,  for  a  great  many  of  us. 
Any  other  time  seems  preferable  before  the  present 
moment,  to  some  folk  ;  and  to  many,  times  past  are  in 
every  sense  superior  to  anything  the  future  can  have  to 
offer. 

At  all  events  I  was  fortunate  in  the  matter  of  my  first 
situation,  and  I  was  contented  in  it,  being  satisfied  that 
it  was  an  excellent  means  to  an  end  which  I  had  decided 
should  be  very  fine  indeed. 

I  have  never  yet  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind  whether 
I  am  like  or  unlike  to  the  majority  of  mankind  in  this  : 
with  me  every  phase  of  life,  every  occupation,  every 
effort,  almost  every  act  and  thought  have  been  regarded, 
not  upon  their  own  merits  or  in  relation  to  themselves, 
but  as  means  to  ends.  The  ends,  it  always  appeared, 
would  prove  eminently  desirable ;  they  would  give  me  my 
reward.  The  ends,  once  they  were  attained,  would  cer- 
tainly bring  me  peace,  happiness,  fame,  health,  enjoyment, 
leisure,  monetary  gain,  or  whatever  it  was  they  were  de- 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  129 

signed  to  bring.  I  am  still  uncertain  whether  or  not  the 
bulk  of  my  fellow-men  are  similarly  constituted  ;  but  I 
am  tolerably  certain  that  one  misses  a  great  deal  in  life 
as  the  result  of  having  this  kind  of  a  mind. 

To  a  great  extent,  for  example,  one  misses  whatever 
may  be  desirable  in  the  one  moment  of  time  of  which  we 
are  all  sure — the  present.  One  is  not  spared  the  worries 
and  anxieties  of  the  present,  because  they  seem  to  have 
their  definite  bearing  upon  the  end  in  view.  But  the 
good,  the  sound  sweetness  of  the  present,  when  it  chances 
to  be  there,  so  far  from  cherishing  and  savouring  every 
fraction  of  it,  we  spare  it  no  more  than  a  hurried  smile  in 
passing,  as  a  trifling  incident  of  our  progress  toward  the 
grand  end  which  (just  then)  we  have  in  view.  And  how 
often  time  proves  the  end  a  thing  which  never  actually 
draws  one  breath  of  life  ;  a  mere  embryo,  a  phantom, 
vaporous  product  of  our  own  imagination  !  So  that  for 
one,  two,  or  fifty  years,  as  the  case  may  be,  we  have  derived 
no  benefit  from  a  number  of  tangible  good  things,  by 
reason  of  our  strenuous  pursuit  of  a  shadow. 

Is  this  a  peculiar  disease,  or  am  I  merely  noting  a  char- 
acteristic of  my  own  which  is  also  a  characteristic  of 
the  age  in  which  I  have  lived  ?  I  wonder !  It  is,  at  all 
events,  a  way  of  living  which  involves  a  rather  tragical 
waste  of  the  good  red  stuff  of  life  ;  and,  yes,  upon  the 
whole  it  is  a  form  of  restless  waste  and  extravagance 
which  I  fancy  is  far  from  rare  among  the  thinking  men 
and  women  of  my  time.  They  do  not  travel ;  they 
hurry  from  one  place  to  another.  They  do  not  enjoy  ; 
they  pursue  enjoyment.  They  do  not  rest ;  they  arrange 
very  elaborately,  cleverly,  strenuously  to  catch  rest — and 
miss  it.  Is  it  not  possible  that  some  of  us  do  not  live, 
but  use  up  all  the  time  at  our  disposal  in  sweating,  toiling, 
scheming  preparation  for  the  particular  sort  of  life  we 
think  would  suit  us  ;  the  kind  of  life  we  arc  aiming  at ; 
the  end,  in  fact,  in  pursuit  of  which  we  expend  and 
exhaust  our  whole  share  of  life  as  a  means  ? 


130   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Though  these  things  strike  me  now,  it  is  needless  to 
say  they  formed  no  part  of  my  mental  outlook  in  Dursley. 

As  is  often  the  case  in  Australian  homes,  the  colony  of 
out-buildings  upon  Mr.  Perkins's  premises  at  Dursley 
was  more  extensive  than  the  parent  building.  Between 
the  main  house  and  the  stable,  with  all  its  attendant 
minor  sheds  and  lean-to,  was  a  long,  low-roofed  wooden 
structure,  divided  into  dairy,  wash-house,  tool-room, 
workshop,  and,  at  the  end  farthest  from  the  dairy,  what 
is  called  a  '  man's  room.'  This  latter  apartment  was  now 
my  private  sanctuary,  entered  by  nobody  else,  unless  at 
my  invitation.  I  grew  quite  fond  of  this  little  room, 
which  measured  eight  feet  by  twelve  feet,  and  had  a 
window  looking  down  the  ridge  and  across  the  creek  to 
Dursley  in  its  valley  and  the  wooded  hills  beyond. 

I  had  no  lamp  in  my  sanctuary,  and  no  fireplace.  But 
the  climate  of  New  South  Wales  is  kindly,  and,  when  one 
is  used  to  it  and  one's  eyes  are  young,  the  light  of  a  single 
candle  is  surprisingly  satisfying.  That,  at  all  events,  was 
the  light  by  which  I  mastered  the  intricacies  of  Pitman's 
system  of  shorthand,  besides  reading  most  of  the  volumes 
in  Dursley's  School  of  Arts  library.  The  reading  I  accom- 
plished in  bed  ;  the  shorthand  studies  on  the  top  of  a 
packing-case  which  hailed  originally  from  a  match  factory 
in  east  London,  and  doubtless  had  contained  the  curious 
little  cylindrical  cardboard  boxes  of  wax  vestas,  stamped 
with  a  sort  of  tartan  plaid  pattern,  that  are  seen  so  far  as 
I  know  only  in  Australia,  though  made  in  England. 

At  first,  like  others  who  have  trodden  the  same  thorny 
path,  I  went  ahead  swimmingly  with  my  shorthand, 
confining  myself  to  the  writing  of  it  on  the  packing-case. 
Being  at  the  end  of  the  current  bed-book  (it  was  Charles 
Reade's  Griffith  Gaunt)  I  took  my  latest  masterpiece  of 
shorthand  to  bed  with  me  one  night,  only  to  find  that  I 
could  barely  read  one  word  in  ten.  That  was  a  rather 
perturbed  and  unhappy  night,  and  my  progress  there- 
after was  a  somewhat  slower  and  more  laborious  process. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  131 

The  habit  of  rising  with  the  sun  was  now  fairly  en- 
grained in  me.  At  about  daybreak  then  my  first  duties 
would  take  me  to  the  wood-heap,  with  axe  and  saw,  and 
subsequently  to  the  scullery  with  a  heaped  barrow-load 
of  fuel  for  the  day.  Arrived  there  I  polished  the  house- 
hold's boots  and  knives,  washed  my  hands  at  Mrs.  Gab- 
bitas's  immaculate  sink— a  more  scrupulously  clean  house- 
wife I  have  yet  to  meet — and  proceeded  to  the  feeding 
and  milking  of  Bella.  Then  I  fed  the  horse,  cleared  out 
the  stable,  spruced  myself  up,  and  so  to  breakfast  with 
*  The  Gabbitular  One.'  Three  meat  meals  and  two  snacks 
— 4  the  eleven  o'clock  '  and  '  the  four  o'clock  ' — were  the 
order  of  the  day  in  this  establishment.  The  snacks  con- 
sisted of  tea,  which  was  also  served  at  every  meal,  in- 
cluding dinner,  and  scones  and  butter  ;  the  meals  included 
always  some  sort  of  flesh  food  and  varying  adjuncts. 
After  the  lean  dietary  of  St.  Peter's  this  regime  seemed 
almost  startling  to  me  at  first,  a  thing  which  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  last.  But  I  adapted  myself  to  it  without 
difficulty  or  complaint,  and  thrived  upon  it  greatly. 

During  the  day  my  main  work  was  the  cultivation  of 
the  garden,  and  the  care  of  the  front  lawn,  in  which 
Mr.  Perkins  took  a  very  special  pride  and  interest  ; 
chiefly,  I  think,  because  it  was  the  foreground  of  his  wife's 
daily  outlook.  But  the  routine  work  of  the  garden, 
which  always  was  demanding  a  little  more  time  than  one 
had  to  spare  for  it,  was  subject,  of  course,  to  interruptions. 
I  did  the  churning  twice  a  week,  and  Mrs.  Gabbitas  the 
'  working  '  and  '  making  up  '  of  the  butter.  And  there 
were  other  matters,  including  occasional  errands  to  the 
town — a  message  for  a  storekeeper,  or  a  note  for  the 
master  at  his  office. 

Over  the  entrance  to  this  office  of  Mr.  Perkins's  hung 
a  huge  board  on  which  were  boldly  painted  in  red  letters 
on  a  white  ground  the  name  of  George  Perkins,  and  the 
impressive  words — '  Dursley's  Omnigcrcntual  and  Omni- 
feracious    Agent.'     It    really    was    a    remarkable   notice- 


132   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

board,  and  residents  invariably  pointed  it  out  to  visitors 
as  one  of  the  sights  of  the  town.  Indeed,  Dursley  was 
very  proud  of  its  Omniferacious  Agent,  who  for  three  suc- 
cessive years  now  had  been  also  its  mayor. 

But  I  gathered  from  veteran  gossips  in  the  town's  one 
street  that  this  had  not  always  been  so.  Mr.  Perkins 
had  originally  arrived  in  the  town  but  very  slightly  more 
burdened  with  worldly  gear  than  I  was.  The  tools  of 
his  craft  as  a  cobbler  had  left  room  enough  in  one  bundle 
for  the  rest  of  his  property.  Dursley  did  not  want  a 
cobbler  at  that  time,  I  gathered  ;  so  in  this  respect  Mr. 
Perkins  had  been  less  fortunate  than  I  was  ;  for  when  I 
arrived  some  one  had  wanted  a  handy  lad.  However, 
what  proved  more  to  the  point  was  the  fact  that  the 
cobbler  did  want  Dursley.  He  stayed  long  enough  to 
teach  the  townsfolk  to  appreciate  him  as  a  cobbler  of 
boots — and  of  affairs,  of  threatened  legal  proceedings, 
frayed  friendships,  and  the  like.  And  then,  for  some 
months  prior  to  a  general  election,  the  cobbler  edited  the 
local  weekly  newspaper,  and  was  largely  instrumental  in 
returning  the  Dursley-born  candidate  to  parliament,  in 
place  of  an  interfering  upstart  from  Kempsey  way.  It 
was  not  at  all  a  question  of  politics,  but  of  Dursley  and  its 
interests. 

By  this  time  Mr.  Perkins  had  gone  some  way  towards 
Omniferacious  Agenthood.  He  had  very  successfully 
negotiated  sundry  sales  and  purchases  for  townsmen,  who 
shared  that  disinclination  to  call  in  conventionally  recog- 
nised professional  assistance  which  I  have  often  noticed 
in  rural  Australia.  Then  he  married  the  daughter  of  the 
newspaper  proprietor,  whose  brother  was  one  of  Dursley's 
leading  storekeepers.  Everybody  now  liked  him,  except 
a  few  crotchety  or  petty  souls,  who,  not  understanding 
him,  suspected  him  of  ridiculing  or  exposing  them  in  some 
way,  and  in  any  case  mistrusted  his  jollity,  his  success, 
and  his  popularity.  Even  in  the  beginning,  before  the 
famous  notice-board  was  thought  of,  and  while  Mr.  Per- 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  133 

kins's  work  was  yet  4  awlicular,'  I  gathered  that  several 
old  residents  had  set  their  faces  firmly  against  this  in- 
vincibly merry  fellow,  and  done  all  they  could  to  '  keep 
him  in  his  place.' 

And  now  he  bought  and  sold  for  them  :  their  houses, 
land,  timber,  fruit,  produce,  live-stock,  and  property  of 
every  sort  and  kind,  making  a  larger  income  than  most 
of  them  in  the  doing  of  it,  and  accomplishing  all  this 
purely  by  force  of  his  personality.  He  succeeded  where 
others  failed,  because  so  few  could  help  liking  him  ;  and 
if  he  failed  but  seldom  in  anything  he  undertook,  that  was 
probably  due  in  part  to  the  fact  that  he  never  thought 
and  never  spoke  of  failure,  preferring  always  as  topics 
more  cheerful  matters.  His  wife  had  become  a  permanent 
invalid  very  shortly  after  their  marriage,  yet  no  person 
could  possibly  have  made  the  mistake  of  thinking  George 
Perkins's  marriage  a  failure.  I  doubt  if  a  happier 
married  pair  could  have  been  found  in  Australia. 

The  meal  we  called  tea  (though  we  drank  tea  at  every 
other  meal)  was  partaken  of  by  Mrs.  Gabbitas  and  myself 
at  half-past  five,  and  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Perkins  at  six 
o'clock.  I  was  given  to  understand  at  the  outset  that 
no  work  was  expected  of  me  after  tea.  Once  or  twice  of 
a  summer  evening  I  went  out  into  the  garden  to  perform 
some  trifling  task  I  had  overlooked,  and  upon  being  seen 
there  by  Mr.  Perkins  was  saluted  with  some  such  remark 
as  : 

4  Stealing  time,  Xickpcrry,  stealing  time  !  You  an' 
me  '11  fall  out,  my  friend,  if  you  can't  manage  to  keep 
proper  working  hours.  Applicatiousncss  is  all  very  well, 
but  stealing  time  after  tea  is  gluttish  and  greedular,  and 
must  be  put  down  with  an  iron  hand,  with  an  iron  hand, 
Nickperry.     Tssp  !     Howzashorthandgctnon  ?  ' 

Before  expelling  the  last  interrogative  omnibus  word, 
he  would  clench  one  fat  fist  and  knead  the  air  downward 
with  it,  to  illustrate  the  process  of  putting  down  greediness 
with  an  iron  hand. 


134   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

I  saw  comparatively  little  of  him,  of  course,  owing  to  his 
preoccupation  with  business,  his  own  and  that  of  Dursley 
and  most  of  its  inhabitants  ;  but  we  were  excellent  good 
friends,  and  it  was  rarely  that  he  missed  his  Sunday 
morning  walk  round  the  whole  place  with  me,  when  my 
week's  work  would  be  passed  in  more  or  less  humorous 
review,  and  the  programme  for  the  next  week  discussed. 
After  this  tour  of  inspection  I  generally  went  to  church, 
and  the  afternoon  I  almost  invariably  spent  in  my  room 
over  the  packing-case.  That  is  a  period  which  many 
people  give  to  letter-writing,  and  it  is  queer  to  recall  the 
fact  that,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  I  had  written  only 
two  letters  in  my  life  up  to  this  period — one  to  a  Sydney 
bookseller,  whose  address  I  got  from  Mr.  Perkins,  and 
one  to  Mr.  Rawlence,  the  Sydney  artist,  to  tell  him  of 
my  present  position,  and  to  say  that  I  had  made  a  start 
upon  shorthand.  His  kindly  and  encouraging  reply  was, 
I  think,  the  first  letter  I  ever  received  through  the  post. 
But  I  now  began  to  write  letters  by  the  score,  addressed 
to  imaginary  correspondents,  and  based  in  style  upon 
my  studies  of  correspondence  in  various  books.  These 
epistles,  however,  all  ended  their  brief  careers  under  the 
kindling  wood  in  Mrs.  Gabbitas's  kitchen  grate. 

'  Applicatious  and  industrial,  with  bettermentatious 
ambitions,'  Mr.  Perkins  had  said  of  me  within  a  few 
moments  of  our  first  meeting,  and  at  this  period  I  think 
I  justified  the  sense  of  his  comment.  My  daily  work  was 
pleasant  enough,  of  course,  healthy  and  not  fatiguing. 
Still,  it  was  perhaps  odd  in  a  youth  of  my  age  that  I  should 
have  had  no  desire  for  recreation  or  amusement.  My  study 
of  shorthand  did  not  interest  me  in  the  faintest  degree  ; 
but  I  was  greatly  interested  by  my  growing  mastery  of  it, 
because  I  thought  of  the  mastery  of  shorthand,  as  Mr. 
Rawlence  had  described  it,  as  a  very  valuable  means  to 
an  end,  to  various  ends.  I  thought  of  it,  in  short,  as  the 
key  which  should  open  Sydney's  doors  to  me  ;  for,  happy 
as  my  life  was  in  Dursley,  I  never  regarded  it  in  any  other 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  135 

light  than  as  a  useful  preliminary  to  the  next  stage  of 
my  career.  And  that  again,  from  all  I  have  since  been 
told,  was  hardly  an  attitude  proper  to  my  years. 

It  certainly  was  not  due  to  any  conscious  discontent 
with  my  life  and  work  in  Dursley.  I  must  suppose  it  was 
the  beginning  of  that  restless  temperamental  itch  which 
all  through  life  has  made  me  regard  everything  I  did  as 
no  more  than  the  necessary  prelude  to  some  more  or  less 
vague  thing  I  meant  presently  to  do,  which  should  be 
much  better  worth  doing.  A  praiseworthy  doctrine  I 
have  heard  it  called.  It  may  be.  But  I  would  like  to  be 
able  to  warn  all  and  sundry  who  cultivate  or  inculcate 
it  in  this  present  century,  that  the  margin  between  it 
and  the  wastefully  extravagant  body  and  soul-devouring 
restlessness  which  I  sometimes  think  the  key-note  of  our 
time — the  margin  is  a  perilously  slender  one. 

XI 

Every  day  the  Sydney  Morning  Herald  was  delivered  at 
the  Perkins's  establishment,  and  every  evening  it  reached 
the  kitchen  at  tea-time.  Mrs.  Gabbitas  regarded  it  as  a 
very  useful  journal  for  fire-lighting  purposes,  but  having 
no  other  interest  in  it  was  quite  agreeable  to  its  being 
out-of-date  by  one  day  when  it  reached  her  hands.  Thus 
the  daily  newspaper  became  my  perquisite  each  evening, 
to  be  returned  faithfully  in  the  morning  with  the  day's 
supply  of  fuel,  in  order  that  it  might  duly  fulfil  its  higher 
and  more  serviceable  destiny  in  Mrs.  Gabbitas's  stove. 

For  quite  a  long  time  I  never  scanned  the  news  columns 
of  that  really  admirable  newspaper.  I  might  have 
thought  that  their  perusal  would  have  been  helpful  to 
me.  especially  as  I  cherished  vague  ideas  of  one  day 
earning  my  living  in  a  newspaper  office.  But,  for  the 
time,  my  mind  was  too  much  occupied  with  thoughts  of 
another  means  to  an  end — shorthand.  The  longest 
chunks  of  unbroken  letterpress  were  the  leading  articles. 


136    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

For  months  I  never  looked  beyond  them,  and  never  stopped 
short  of  copying  out  at  least  one  column  of  them,  and 
often  more,  especially  in  those  misguided  early  days 
before  I  awoke  to  the  stern  necessity  of  reading  over  every 
written  line  of  shorthand. 

I  am  afraid  the  leader-writers'  eloquence  and  style — 
real  and  ever-present  features  in  this  journal's  pages — 
were  entirely  wasted  upon  me.  I  copied  them  with  slavish 
lack  of  thought,  intent  only  on  my  shorthand,  and  most 
generally  upon  the  physical  difficulty  of  keeping  my 
eyes  open.  I  invariably  fell  asleep  three  or  four  times 
before  finishing  my  allotted  task,  and  only  managed  to 
keep  awake  for  the  reading  of  it  by  standing  erect  be- 
side the  packing-case  and  reading  aloud.  How  it  would 
have  astonished  those  gifted  leader-writers  if  they  could 
have  walked  past,  overheard  me,  and  recognised  in  my 
halting,  drowsy  declamation  their  own  well-rounded 
periods  ! 

As  I  read  the  last  word  my  spirits  always  rose  in- 
stantly, and  my  craving  for  sleep  left  me.  With  keen 
anticipatory  pleasure  I  would  fold  up  the  newspaper 
ready  for  the  morning,  take  one  look  out  from  the  door- 
way to  note  the  weather,  shed  my  clothes,  snuff  the  candle, 
and  climb  luxuriously  into  bed  with  the  current  book, 
whatever  it  might  be.  No  newspaper  for  me.  This  was 
real  reading,  and  while  I  read  in  bed  (travel,  biography, 
and  fiction)  I  lived  exclusively  in  the  life  my  author 
depicted.  Vanished  utterly  for  me  were  Dursley  and  its 
worthy  folk,  and  Australia  too  for  that  matter.  Prac- 
tically all  the  books  I  read  carried  me  to  the  Old  World, 
and  most  often  to  England,  which  for  me  was  rapidly 
becoming  a  synonym  for  romance,  charm,  interest,  culture, 
and  all  the  good  things  of  which  one  dreams.  Everything 
desirable,  and  not  noticeable  or  recognised  as  being  in 
my  daily  life,  I  grew  gradually  to  think  of  as  being  part 
and  parcel  of  English  life.  I  did  not  as  yet  long  to  go  to 
England.     One  does  not  long  to  visit  the  moon.     But 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  137 

when  some  well-wrought  piece  of  atmosphere,  some 
happy  turn  of  speech,  some  inspiring  glimpse  of  high  and 
noble  motives  or  tender  devotion,  caught  and  held  me,  in 
a  book,  I  would  sigh  quietly  and  say  to  myself  : 

*  Ah,  yes  ;  in  England  !  ' 

Looking  back  upon  it,  I  am  rather  pleased  with  myself 
for  the  stubborn  persistence  with  which  I  slogged  away 
at  the  shorthand  ;  because  it  never  once  touched  my 
interest.  For  me,  it  was  a  veritable  treadmill.  And,  for 
that  reason,  I  suppose,  I  was  never  really  good  at  it.  I 
have  no  doubt  whatever  that  it  had  real  value  for  me  as 
a  disciplinary  exercise. 

And  then  my  candle  would  gutter  and  expire.  I  have 
sometimes,  by  means  of  sitting  up  in  bed,  holding  the 
book  high,  and  using  great  concentration,  devoured  a 
whole  chapter  between  the  first  sputtering  sound  of  the 
candle's  death-rattle  and  the  moment  of  its  actual  demise. 
Indeed,  I  have  more  than  once  finished  a  chapter,  when 
within  half  a  page  of  it,  by  matchlight.  But  that,  of 
course,  was  gross  extravagance.  Our  candles  seemed  to 
me  abominably  short,  and  I  once  tried  to  seduce  Mrs. 
Gabbitas  into  allowing  me  two  at  a  time ;  but  she,  good 
soul,  wisely  said  that  one  was  more  than  I  had  any  right 
to  burn  in  an  evening,  and  I  was  too  miserly  to  buy  them 
for  myself. 

Yes,  it  seems  horribly  unnatural  in  a  youth,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  was  rather  miserly  at  that  time.  I  wanted  pas- 
sionately to  do  various  things.  Precisely  what,  I  had 
never  so  far  thought  out.  But  I  did  not  desire  the  less 
ardently  for  that.  I  suppose  the  thing  I  wanted  was 
to  4  better  myself,'  as  the  servants  say.  Was  I  not  a 
sonant  ?  Without  ever  reasoning  the  matter  out,  I  felt 
strongly  that  the  possession  of  some  money,  a  certain 
store,  was  very  necessary  to  my  well-being  ;  that  in  some 
mysterious  way  it  would  add  immensely  to  my  chances, 
to  my  strength  in  the  world  ;  that  it  would  put  me  on  a 
footing  superior  to  that  I  had  at  present.     I  even  thought 


138   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

of  it,  in  my  innocence,  as  Capital.  Many  of  my  musings 
used  to  begin  with  :  '  If  a  fellow  has  Capital ' — and  I 
believed  that  if  he  had  not  this  magic  talisman  his  position 
was  very  different  and  inferior.  I  thought  of  the  world's 
hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water  as  being  the  folk 
who  had  no  Capital ;  the  others  as  the  people  who  had 
somehow  acquired  possession  of  the  talisman.  And  I 
suppose  I  wanted  to  be  of  the  company  of  the  others. 

Ten  shillings  a  week  means  twenty-six  pounds  a  year ; 
and  I  very  well  remember  that  on  the  first  anniversary 
of  my  entering  Mr.  Perkins's  employ,  my  Government 
Savings  Bank  book  showed  a  balance  to  my  credit  of 
twenty-two  pounds  three  and  fourpence.  This  sum,  I 
decided,  might  fairly  rank  as  Capital ;  it  really  merited 
the  august  name,  I  felt,  being  actually  above  the  sum 
of  twenty  pounds.  Eighteen  pounds  was  a  respectable 
nest-egg.  Yes,  but  twenty-three  pounds  three  and  four- 
pence — that  was  Capital ;  and  I  now  definitely  took  rank, 
however  humbly,  among  the  people  who  possessed  the 
talisman.  I  realised  very  well  that  I  was  poor  ;  that  this 
sum  of  money  was  not  a  large  one.  Still,  it  was  Capital, 
and,  as  such,  it  gave  me  a  deal  of  satisfaction,  and  more 
of  confidence  than  I  could  have  had  without  it.  I  am 
certain  of  that.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  one  cannot  always, 
later  in  life,  obtain  the  same  secure  and  confident  feeling 
by  virtue  of  possessing  twenty  pounds  ! 

This  meant  that  I  had  spent  less  than  four  pounds  in  the 
year.  But  no ;  Mr.  Perkins  gave  me  ten  shillings,  and 
Mrs.  Perkins  five  shillings,  at  Christmas  time.  Also,  I 
won  ten  shillings  as  a  prize  in  a  competition  arranged  by 
the  Dursley  Chronicle.  It  was  for  the  best  five  hundred 
word  description  of  an  Australian  scene,  and  I  described 
Livorno  Bay  and  its  derelict ;  and,  as  I  thought  at  the 
time  —  quite  mistakenly,  I  am  sure  —  described  them 
rather  well.  Apart  from  a  book  or  two  I  had  bought 
practically  nothing,  save  boots  and  socks  and  a  Sunday 
suit  of  clothes.     Mrs.  Perkins  had  kindly  supplied  quite 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  139 

a  stock  of  shirts  for  me,  by  means  of  operations  performed 
upon  old  shirts  of  her  husband's.  My  Sunday  suit  of 
clothes  had  occupied  me  greatly  for  some  weeks.  I  had 
never  before  bought  clothing  of  any  kind.  After  two 
or  three  visits  to  the  store,  and  many  talks  at  meal- 
times with  Mrs.  Gabbitas,  I  finally  decided  upon  blue 
serge. 

1  It  do  show  the  dust,  but  it  don't  show  the  wear  so 
much  as  the  rest  of  'em,'  was  the  Gabbitular  verdict  which 
finally  settled  this  momentous  business.  A  tie  to  match 
was  given  in  with  the  suit,  a  concession  which  I  owed 
entirely  to  Mrs.  Gabbitas's  determined  enterprise.  The 
tie  was  of  satin,  and,  taken  in  conjunction  with  a  neatly 
arranged  wad  of  silk  handkerchief,  extraordinarily  varie- 
gated in  colour  (Mrs.  Gabbitas's  present),  protruding  from 
the  breast-pocket  of  the  new  coat,  it  produced  on  the  first 
Sunday  after  its  purchase  an  effect  which  I  found  at  once 
arresting  and  sedately  rich.  My  looking-glass  was  not 
more  than  six  inches  square,  but,  by  propping  it  up  on 
a  chair,  and  receding  from  it  gradually,  I  was  able  to 
obtain  a  very  fair  view  of  my  trousers  ;  while,  by  replac- 
ing it  on  the  wall,  and  observing  my  reflection  carefully 
from  different  angles,  I  was  able  to  judge  of  most  parts  of 
the  coat  and  waistcoat. 

After  a  good  deal  of  thought,  I  decided  that  the  best 
effect  was  obtained  by  fastening  the  top  button  of  the 
coat,  turning  back  one  lower  corner  with  careful  negli- 
gence, and  keeping  it  there  by  holding  one  hand  in 
my  trouser  pocket.  In  that  order,  then,  I  interviewed 
Mrs.  Gabbitas  in  the  sculler}-,  to  receive  her  congratu- 
lations before  proceeding  to  church.  Altogether,  it  was 
a  day  of  pleasing  excitement  ;  but,  greatly  though  it 
intrigued  me,  the  purchase  left  me  as  much  a  miser  as 
ever,  my  only  other  extravagance  for  a  long  time  being 
a  cream-coloured  parasol — my  present  to  Mrs.  Gabbitas ; 
and — I  may  as  well  confess  it — I  could  not  have  brought 
myself  to  buy  that,  but  for  the  fact  that  it  was  called 


140   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

*  slightly  shop-soiled,'  and  had  been  '  marked  down ' 
from  8s.  lid.  to  4s.  10|d. 

Yes,  for  a  youth  of  sixteen  years,  I  fear  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  I  was  unnaturally  parsimonious,  and  a  good 
deal  of  what  schoolboys  used  to  call  a  smug  and  a  swatter. 
It  really  was  curious,  because  I  do  not  recall  that  I  had 
any  ambition  to  be  actually  rich.  Mr.  Smiles  and  his 
Self  Help  would  have  left  me  cold  if  I  had  read  that 
classic.  I  indulged  no  Whittingtonian  dreams  of  knight- 
hood, mayoral  chains,  vast  commercial  or  financial 
operations,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  The  things  that 
interested  me  were  largely  unreal.  I  was  immensely 
appealed  to,  I  remember,  by  a  phase  in  the  career  of 
Charles  Reade's  Griffith  Gaunt,  in  which  that  gentleman 
lived  incognito  for  awhile  in  a  remote  rural  inn,  and  wooed 
(if  he  did  not  actually  marry)  the  buxom  daughter  of  the 
house,  while  his  real  wife  was  being  accused  of  having 
murdered  him.  I  think  that  was  the  way  of  it.  I  know 
the  sojourn  in  that  isolated  inn — I  pictured  its  lichen- 
grown  walls ;  a  place  that  would  be  approached  quite 
nearly  in  the  stilly  night  by  wild  woodland  creatures — 
appealed  to  me  as  a  wholly  delightful  episode. 

I  never  had  a  dream  of  commercial  triumphs.  I  did 
not  think  of  fame.  For  what  was  I  striving  ?  And  why 
did  I  so  assiduously  save  ?  It  is  not  easy  to  answer 
these  questions.  I  find  the  thing  puzzles  me  a  good 
deal.  There  was  my  means-to-an-end  attitude ;  but 
what  was  the  precise  end  in  view  ?  If  one  comes  to  that 
I  have  been  striving  all  my  life  long,  and  to  what  end  ? 
I  know  this,  that  in  the  midst  of  my  physical  content  as  a 
handy  lad  in  a  comfortable  home,  I  had  at  least  thought 
definitely  of  my  future  up  to  a  certain  point.  I  had 
told  myself  that  there  were  two  kinds  of  people  in  the 
world  :  the  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,  earning 
a  mere  living,  as  I  was  earning  mine,  by  the  labour  of 
their  hands  ;  and  the  others.  I  knew  very  little  of  what 
the  others  did,  and  had  no  very  definite  plan  or  desire  to 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  141 

follow,  myself,  any  of  their  occupations.  But  I  did 
know  that  I  wished  to  live  in  their  division  of  the  com- 
munity. I  wished  to  be  one  of  those  others.  I  should 
be  unworthy  of  my  father  if  I  did  not  presently  take  my 
place  among  those  others.  And,  I  suppose,  the  only 
practical  steps  in  that  direction  which  I  knew  of  and 
could  take  were  the  saving  of  my  wages  and  the  study 
of  shorthand.  I  think  that  was  about  the  way  of  it. 
And  if  my  diligence  with  regard  to  these  two  matters  may 
be  taken  as  the  measure  of  my  desire  to  join  the  ranks 
of  the  others,  it  is  safe  to  say  I  must  have  desired  it  very 
much  indeed. 


XII 

Every  one  has  noticed  the  odd  vividness  with  which 
certain  apparently  unmemorable  episodes  stand  out 
among  one's  recollections,  though  the  details  of  far  more 
important  occasions  have  become  merged  in  the  huge 
and  nebulous  mist  of  the  things  one  has  forgotten.  (Mem- 
ory is  a  longish  gallery,  but  the  mass  of  that  which  is 
unremembered,  how  enormous  this  is  !) 

I  recall  a  Sunday  evening  in  Dursley.  I  had  been  to 
church,  a  rare  thing  for  me,  of  an  evening,  to  hear  a 
strange,  visiting  parson  ;  a  man  who  had  done  missionary 
work  in  cast  London  and  in  Northern  Queensland.  I 
remember  nothing  that  he  said,  and  nothing  occurred 
that  night  to  make  it  memorable  for  me.     And  yet  .  .  . 

The  aftermath  of  the  sunset  beyond  Dursley  valley 
was  very  beautiful.  It  often  was.  Venus  shone  out  with 
mellow  brilliance  a  little  to  the  right  of  the  church.  The 
air  was  full  of  bush  scents,  and  somewhere,  not  far  from 
where  I  stood,  dead  brushwood  was  burning  and  diffusing 
abroad  the  aromatic  pungency  that  fire  draws  from 
eucalyptus  leaves. 

Gradually,  I  was  overcome  by  that  sense  of  the  infin- 
itely romantic  potentialities  of  life  which  I  suppose  over- 


142   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

powers  all  young  people  at  times  ;  and,  more  especially, 
rather  lonely  young  people.  The  main  events  of  my 
short  life  filed  past  before  me  in  review  against  the  back- 
ground of  an  exquisitely  melancholy  evening  sky,  il- 
lumined by  one  perfect  star.  Even  this  dim  light  was 
further  softened  for  me  presently  by  the  moisture  that 
gathered  in  my  eyes  ;  tears  that  pricked  with  a  pain 
that  was  almost  intolerably  sweet.  I  recalled  how,  as 
a  child,  I  had  longed  to  see  strange  and  far-off  lands  ; 
how  I  had  bragged  to  servants  and  childish  companions 
that  I  would  travel.  And  then,  how  I  had  travelled — 
the  Ariadne,  my  companions,  my  father,  the  derelict, 
Livorno  Bay.  And  then,  the  blow  that  cut  off  all  I  had 
held  by,  and  made  of  me  an  unconsidered  scrap,  owning 
nothing,  and  owned  by  nobody. 

I  had  been  very  miserable  at  the  Orphanage.  Yes, 
there  was  distinct  pleasure  in  recalling  and  weighing  the 
sum  of  my  unhappiness  at  St.  Peter's.  I  had  longed  to 
be  quit  of  it ;  I  had  willed  to  be  out  in  the  open  world, 
free  to  make  what  I  could  of  my  own  life.  And,  behold, 
I  was  free.  My  will  had  accomplished  this,  had  brushed 
aside  the  restraining  bonds  of  the  whole  organisation 
supervised  by  Father  O'Malley.  I,  a  friendless,  bare- 
legged orphan  had  done  this,  because  I  desired  to  do  it. 
And  now  I  was  a  recognised  and  respectable  unit  in  a 
free  community,  earning  and  paying  my  way  with  the 
best.  (I  was  pleasantly  conscious  of  my  blue  serge  suit, 
the  satin  tie,  and  the  multi-coloured  silk  handkerchief.) 
I  was  possessed  of  Capital — more  than  twenty  pounds  ; 
quite  a  substantial  little  sum  in  excess  of  twenty  pounds, 
even  without  the  interest  shortly  to  be  added  thereto. 
Finally,  that  very  evening,  had  I  not  been  addressed  as 
'  Mister  Freydon,'  I,  the  erstwhile  bare-footed  '  inmate  ' 
of  St.  Peter's  ?  There  was  nothing  of  bathos,  nothing  in 
the  least  ludicrous,  to  me  in  this  last  reflection. 

'  It 's  nothing,  of  course,'  I  told  myself,  with  proud 
deprecation  ;     '  and   he  's   only   a   shop   assistant.      But 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  143 

there  it  is.  It  does  show  something  after  all.  And, 
besides,  he  is  a  member  of  the  School  of  Arts  Com- 
mittee ! ' 

The  *  he  '  in  this  case  was,  of  course,  the  person  who 
had  shown  discernment  enough  to  address  me  as  '  Mister 
Freydon.'  And,  deprecate  as  I  might,  the  thing  had 
given  me  a  thrill  of  deep  and  real  satisfaction.  Merely 
recalling  the  sound  of  it  added  to  the  exaltation  of  my 
mood,  and  to  my  obsession  by  the  wonder,  the  romance 
of  the  various  transitions  of  my  life. 

The  hazards  of  life,  the  wonder  of  it  all — this  it  was 
that  filled  my  mind.  How  would  Ted  be  struck  by  it  ? 
I  thought.  And  there  and  then  I  composed  in  my  mind 
the  letter  which  should  accompany  my  return  of  the 
pound  he  had  given  me  when  I  could  find  an  address  to 
which  it  could  be  sent.  There  should  be  no  flinching 
here,  no  blinking  the  exact  truth.  I  may  have  been  an 
insufferable  young  prig  and  snob.  Very  likely  I  was.  As 
I  recall  it  that  letter,  composed  while  I  gazed  across  the 
valley  at  the  evening  star,  was  informed  by  a  sort  of  easy 
condescension  and  friendly  patronage.  Grateful,  yes, 
but  with  a  faint  hint,  too,  that  Ted  had  been  rather  for- 
tunate, a  little  honoured  perhaps  in  having  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  assisting,  however  slightly,  in  the  launch  of 
my  career.  At  one  time  I  had  gladly  regarded  it  as  a 
present.  That,  it  seemed,  was  a  blunder  of  my  remote 
infancy.  Honest  Ted's  pound  was  a  loan,  of  course,  and 
like  any  other  honourable  man  I  should  naturally  repay 
the  loan  ! 

Musing  in  this  wise  I  turned  away  from  the  evening 
star,  and  walked  very  slowly  past  the  dairy  and  the  wash- 
house  to  my  own  little  room.  Now  the  odd  tiling  was 
that,  though  I  seemed  to  have  given  not  one  single  thought 
to  the  future,  though  I  seemed  to  have  made  no  plan, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  to  have  confined  myself  exclusively 
to  the  idlest  sort  of  musing  upon  the  past,  yet,  as  I  walked 
into  my  dark  room,  I  knew  that  I  had  definitely  decided 


144   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

to  leave  Dursley  at  once,  and  take  the  next  step  in  my 
career.     I  actually  whispered  to  myself  : 

'  It 's  a  good  little  room.  I  shall  miss  this  room.  I  shall 
often  think  of  the  nights  I  've  spent  here.' 

All  this,  as  though  my  few  belongings  had  been  packed, 
and  I  had  arranged  to  depart  next  morning ;  though,  in 
fact,  I  had  not  given  a  single  conscious  thought  to  the 
matter  of  leaving  Dursley  until  I  turned  my  back  on  the 
evening  star. 

Next  morning  at  breakfast  I  told  Mrs.  Gabbitas  I 
meant  to  leave  and  make  for  Sydney  ;  and  Mrs.  Gabbitas 
gave  me  to  understand  that,  with  all  their  infinite  varieties 
of  foolishness,  most  young  fellows  shared  one  idiosyn- 
crasy in  common  :  they  none  of  them  had  sense  enough 
to  know  when  they  were  well  off.  I  spoke  of  my  short- 
hand, and  said  I  had  not  been  working  at  it  for  nothing. 
Mrs.  Gabbitas  sniffed,  and  expressed  very  plainly  the 
doubts  she  felt  about  shorthand  ever  providing  me  with 
meals  of  the  kind  I  enjoyed  at  her  kitchen  table. 

'  I  suppose  the  fact  is  gardening  isn't  good  enough  for 
you,  and  you  want  to  be  a  gentleman,'  the  good  soul  said, 
with  sounding  irony.  And,  whilst  I  made  some  modestly 
deprecatory  sound  in  reply,  my  thoughts  said  :  '  You 
are  precisely  right.' 

With  news  in  hand  I  have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Gabbitas  took 
an  early  opportunity  of  a  chat  with  Mrs.  Perkins.  At 
all  events  I  had  no  sooner  got  my  lawn-mower  to  work 
that  morning  than  the  mistress  called  me  to  her  where 
she  lay  on  the  verandah. 

'  Is  it  true  we  're  going  to  lose  you,  Nick  ?  '  she  said 
very  kindly.  And,  as  my  irritating  way  still  was,  I 
blushed  confusedly  as  I  endorsed  the  report. 

'  Well,  of  course,  we  knew  we  should,  sooner  or  later ; 
and,  though  we  '11  be  sorry  to  lose  you,  you  are  right  to 
go  ;  quite  right.  I  am  sure  of  that,  and  so  is  Geo — so 
is  Mr.  Perkins.  But  have  you  got  a  situation  to  go  to, 
Nick  ?  ' 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  145 

I  told  her  I  had  not,  and  that  I  did  not  think  I 
could  secure  a  berth  in  Sydney  while  I  was  still  in 
Dursley. 

4  No,  no,  perhaps  not,'  she  said  musingly.  '  You  must 
talk  to  Mr.  Perkins  about  it,  and  I  will,  too.  What  made 
you  decide  on  going  now,  Dick  ?  ' 

*  I — I  don't  know,'  I  replied  awkwardly.  And  then 
the  sweet  kindliness  of  her  face  emboldened  me  to  add : 
4 1  was  just  thinking  last  night — thinking  about  my  life 
as  I  looked  at  the  sky  where  the  sunset  had  been,  and — 
somehow,  I  found  I  was  decided.'  Then,  as  if  to  justify 
if  possible  the  exceeding  lameness  of  my  explanation  : 
4  You  see,  Mrs.  Perkins,  I  've  got  the  hang  of  the  short- 
hand pretty  well  now,'  I  added. 

She  nodded  sympathetically.  4  Well,  I  'm  sure  you  '11 
succeed,  Nick,  I  'm  sure  you  will ;  for  you  're  a  good  lad, 
and  very  persevering.  The  main  thing  is  being  a  good 
lad,  Nick  ;  that 's  the  main  thing.  It 's  sad  for  you, 
having  lost  your  parents,  and — and  everything.  But 
when  you  go  away,  Nick,  just  try  to  think  of  me  as  if  I 
were  your  mother,  will  you  ?  I  '11  be  thinking  quite  a 
lot  of  you,  you  know.  Don't  you  go  and  fancy  there  's 
nobody  cares  about  you.  We  shall  all  be  thinking  a  lot 
about  you.  And,  Nick,  if  ever  you  find  yourself  in  any 
trouble,  if  you  begin  to  feel  you  're  going  wrong  in  any 
way,  if  you  feel  like  doing  anything  you  know  is  wrong,  or 
if  you  feci  downhearted  and  lonesome — you  just  get  into 
a  train  and  come  to  Dursley,  Nick.  Come  straight  here 
to  me,  and  tell  me  everything  about  it,  and — and  I  think 
I  '11  be  able  to  help  you.  I  '11  try,  anyhow  ;  and  you  '11 
know  I  should  want  to.  And  if  it  isn't  easy  to  come  tell 
me  just  the  same  ;  write  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Promise 
me  that,  Nick.' 

I  promised  her.  She  held  out  her  white,  thin  hand  and 
clasped  my  hard  hand  in  it ;  and  I  went  off  to  my  mowing 
very  conscious  of  my  eyes  because  they  smarted  and 
pricked,  but  little  indebted  to  them  because  they  failed 


146   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

to  show  me  anything  more  definite  than  a  blur  of  greenery 
at  my  feet,  and  a  blur  of  sunlight  above. 

A  fortnight  elapsed  before  I  did  really  leave  that  place  ; 
but  for  me  most  of  the  emotion  of  leaving,  of  parting  with 
my  kindly  employers  and  friends,  and  with  pretty,  peace- 
ful Dursley,  was  epitomised  in  that  little  conversation  on 
the  verandah  with  Mrs.  Perkins.  I  know  now  that  there 
are  many  other  sweet  and  kindly  women  in  the  world.  At 
that  time  no  one  among  them  had  ever  been  so  sweet  and 
kind  to  me. 

XIII 

When  I  stepped  out  of  the  train  at  Redfern  Station  in 
Sydney,  I  carried  all  my  worldly  belongings  in  a  much 
worn  carpet-bag  which  had  been  given  me  by  Mr.  Perkins. 
Its  weight  did  not  at  all  suggest  to  me  the  need  of  obtain- 
ing a  porter's  services,  and  hardly  would  have  done  so 
even  if  I  had  been  accustomed  to  engaging  assistance  of 
the  sort.  Stepping  out  with  my  bag  into  the  bustle  of 
the  capital  city  I  walked,  as  one  who  knew  his  way,  to 
where  the  noisy  and  malodorous  old  steam  tram-cars 
started,  and  made  my  way  by  tram  to  Circular  Quay.  (I 
had  had  my  directions  in  Dursley.)  Here  I  boarded  a 
ferry-boat,  and  at  the  cost  of  one  penny  was  carried  across 
the  shining  waters  of  the  harbour  to  North  Shore.  Half 
an  hour  later  I  had  mounted  the  hill,  found  Mill  Street 
and  Bay  View  Villa,  and  actually  become  a  boarder  and  a 
lodger  there,  with  a  latch-key  of  my  own. 

The  landlady  having  left  the  bedroom  to  which  she  had 
escorted  me,  my  carefully  sustained  nonchalance  fell  from 
me ;  I  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  and  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  my  bed  with  a  long-drawn  sigh.  The  celerity,  the 
extraordinary  swiftness  of  the  whole  business  left  me 
almost  breathless. 

4  Yesterday,'  I  told  myself,  as  one  recounting  a  miracle, 
*  I  was  planting  out  young  tomatoes  in  Mr.  Perkins's 
garden  in  Dursley.     Only  a  few  minutes  ago  I  was  still 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  147 

in  the  train.  And  now — now  I  'm  a  lodger,  and  this  is 
my  room,  and — I  'm  a  lodger  1  ' 

I  did  not  seem  able  to  get  beyond  that  just  then,  though 
later  on,  with  a  recollection  of  a  certain  passage  in  a 
favourite  novel,  I  tried  the  sound,  in  a  whisper,  of  : 

*  Mr.  Nicholas  Freydon  was  now  comfortably  installed 
in  rooms  on  the  shady  side  of — North  Shore.'  At  the 
same  time  I  ran  over  a  few  variants  upon  such  easy 
phrases  as  :  '  My  rooms  at  North  Shore,'  '  Snug  quarters,' 
*  My  boarding-house,'  '  My  landlady,'  and  the  like. 

One  must  remember  that  I  was  less  than  two  years  dis- 
tant from  St.  Peter's  and  from  Sister  Agatha  and  her  cane. 

There  were  two  beds  in  my  room  ;  one  small  and  the 
other  very  small.  I  was  sitting  on  the  very  small  one. 
The  other  belonged  to  Mr.  William  Smith,  whose  real  name 
might  quite  possibly  have  been  something  else.  For 
already,  though  I  had  not  seen  him,  I  had  gathered  that 
my  room-mate  was  an  elderly  man  with  a  history,  of  which 
this  much  was  generally  admitted  :  that  he  had  seen  much 
better  days,  and  was  a  married  man  separated  from  his 
wife. 

4  But  a  pleasanter,  kinder-hearted,  nicer-spoken  gentle- 
man you  couldn't  wish  to  meet,  that  I  will  say,'  Mrs. 
Hastings,  the  landlady,  had  told  me.  '  Which,'  she 
added,  after  a  pause  given  to  reflection,  with  eyes  down- 
cast, '  if  he  was  otherwise  I  should  not  'vc  thought  of 
letting  a  share  of  his  room  to  anybody  with  recommen- 
dations from  me  nephew  in  Durslcy — not  likely.  No,  nor 
for  that  matter,  of  havin'  him  in  my  house  at  all.' 

My  landlady  was  an  aunt  of  that  Mr.  Jokram  who  had 
earned  distinction  (apart  from  his  membership  of  the 
School  of  Arts  Committee)  by  being  the  first  to  address  me 
as  4  Mister  Freydon.'  This  good  man  had  taken  a  most 
friendly  interest  in  my  outsctting,  and  had  written  off  at 
once  to  his  aunt  to  know  if  she  could  include  me  among 
her  boarders.  Mrs.  Hastings  had  explained  that  she  was 
'  Full  up  as  per  usual,  but  if  your  gentleman  friend  would 


148   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

care  to  share  Mr.  Smith's  bedroom,  him  being  as  quiet  and 
respectable  a  gentleman  as  walks,  it  will  be  easy  to  put  in 
another  bed.' 

This  was  before  any  mention  had  been  made  of  terms. 
These,  we  subsequently  learned,  ranged  from  a  minimum 
of  17s.  6d.  per  week,  including  light  and  use  of  bath. 
Later,  the  nephew  was  able  to  obtain  special  concessions 
for  me,  as  the  result  of  which  I  had  the  opportunity  of 
securing  all  the  amenities  of  Mrs.  Hastings's  refined  home, 
including  a  share  of  Mr.  Smith's  room,  and  such  plain 
washing  as  did  not  call  for  the  use  of  starch — all  for  the 
very  moderate  charge  of  16s.  weekly. 

Thus  it  was  that,  although  a  stranger  and  without 
friends  in  Sydney,  I  was  able  to  go  direct  into  my  new 
quarters,  without  any  loss  of  time  or  money  ;  an  impor- 
tant consideration  even  for  a  capitalist  whose  fortune  at 
this  time  amounted  to  something  nearer  thirty  than 
twenty  pounds.  (Mr.  Perkins  had  given  me  an  extra 
month's  wages.  Mrs.  Perkins  had  supplemented  this  by 
half  a  sovereign,  six  pairs  of  socks,  three  linen  shirts,  and 
half  a  dozen  collars  ;  and  Mrs.  Gabbitas  had  given  me  a 
brand  new  Bible  and  Prayer-book,  with  ornate  bindings 
and  perfectly  blinding  type,  and  another  of  the  silk  hand- 
kerchiefs coloured  like  a  tropical  sunset.) 

'  I  shall  not  be  in  to  tea  this  evening,  Mrs.  Hastings, 
I  said,  with  fine  carelessness,  as  I  left  the  house,  after  un 
packing  my  belongings  and  paying  a  visit  to  the  bath- 
room, an  apartment  formed  by  taking  in  a  section  of  the 
back  verandah.  (The  bath  was  of  the  same  material  as 
the  verandah  roof — galvanised  iron.)  '  I  've  got  some 
business  in  Sydney  that  will  keep  me  rather  late.' 

The  good  woman  rather  pierced  my  carefully  assumed 
guise  of  nonchalance  by  the  smile  with  which  she  said  : 
'  Oh,  very  well,  Mr.  Freydon ;  I  hope  you  '11  not  be  kept 
too  late — by  business.' 

'  How  in  the  world  did  she  guess  ?  '  I  thought  as  I 
walked  down  to  the  ferry.     It  may  be  that  the  virus  of 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  149 

city  life  had  in  some  queer  way  already  entered  my  veins. 
Here  was  I,  the  parsimonious  '  handy  lad,'  who  had  been 
saving  ninety  per  cent,  of  my  wages  and  never  indulging 
myself  in  any  way,  actually  contemplating  the  purchase 
of  an  evening  meal  in  Sydney,  while  becoming  indebted 
for  an  evening  meal  I  should  never  eat  in  North  Shore ;  to 
say  nothing  of  making  deceitful  remarks  about  being  de- 
tained by  business,  when  I  had  deliberately  made  up  my 
mind  to  postpone  all  business  until  the  next  day.  Truly, 
I  was  making  an  ominous  start  in  the  new  life  ;  or  so  my 
twitching  conscience  told  me,  as  I  sat  enjoying  the  harbour 
view  from  the  deck  of  the  ferry-boat  which  took  me  to 
Circular  Quay. 

My  notion  of  dissipation  and  extravagance  would  have 
proved  amusing  to  the  bloods  of  that  day,  and  merely  in- 
credible to  those  of  the  present  time.  There  was  an  un- 
necessary twopence  for  the  ferry — admitting  the  whole 
business  to  have  been  unnecessary.  There  was  sixpence 
for  a  meal,  consisting  of  tea  and  a  portentous  allowance 
of  scones  with  butter.  There  was  threepence  for  a  packet 
of  cigarettes  ('  colonial '  tobacco),  the  first  I  had  ever 
smoked,  and  a  purchase  which  had  actually  been  decided 
upon  some  days  previously.  Finally,  there  was  four- 
pence  for  a  glass  of  colonial  wine  in  a  George  Street 
wine-shop  ;  and  this  also,  like  the  rest  of  the  outing,  had 
been  practically  decided  upon  before  I  left  Dursley.  But 
with  regard  to  the  wine  there  had  been  reservations.  The 
cigarettes  were  certainly  to  be  tried.  The  wine  was  to 
be  had  if  circumstances  proved  favourable,  and  such  a 
plunge  seemed  at  the  time  desirable.  It  did  ;  and  so  I 
may  suppose  the  outing  was  successful. 

During  my  wanderings  up  and  down  the  city  streets,  I 
examined  carefully  the  vestibules  of  various  places  of 
amusement — rather  dingy  most  of  them  were  at  that 
date — but  had  no  serious  thought  of  penetrating  further. 
The  shops,  the  road  traffic,  and  the  people  intrigued  me 
greatly,  but  especially  the  people,  the  unending  streams 


150   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

of  lounging  men,  women,  and  children.  Some,  no  doubt, 
were  on  business  bent ;  but  the  majority  appeared  to  me 
to  take  their  walking  very  easily,  and  every  one  seemed  to 
be  chattering.  My  life  since  as  a  child  I  left  England  had 
all  been  spent  in  sparsely  populated  rural  surroundings, 
and  the  noisy  bustle  of  Sydney  impressed  me  very  much, 
as  I  imagine  the  Strand  would  impress  a  Dartmoor  lad, 
born  and  bred,  on  his  first  visit  to  London. 

It  did  not  oppress  me  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  I  felt 
pleasantly  stimulated  by  it.  Life  here  seemed  very 
clearly  and  emphatically  articulate  ;  it  marched  past  me 
in  the  streets  to  a  stirring  strain.  There  were  no  pauses, 
no  silences,  no  waiting.  And  then,  too,  one  felt  that 
things  were  happening  all  the  time.  The  atmosphere 
was  full  of  stir  and  bustle.  Showy  horses  and  carriages 
went  spanking  past  one  ;  cabs  were  pulled  up  with  a  jerk, 
and  busily  talking  men  clambered  out  from  them,  care- 
lessly handing  silver  to  the  driver,  as  though  it  were  a 
thing  of  no  consequence,  and  passing  from  one's  sight 
within  doors,  waving  cigars  and  talking,  talking  all  the 
time.  Obviously,  big  things  were  toward  ;  not  one  to-day 
and  one  to-morrow,  but  every  hour  in  every  street.  For- 
tunes were  being  made  and  lost ;  great  enterprises  planned 
and  launched  ;  great  crimes,  too,  I  supposed  ;  and  crucial 
meetings  and  partings. 

Yes,  this  was  the  very  tide  of  life,  one  felt ;  and  with 
what  pulsing,  irresistible  strength  it  ebbed  and  flowed 
along  the  city  highways  !  Among  all  these  thousands  of 
passers-by  no  one  guessed  how  closely  and  with  what  in- 
quisitive interest  I  was  observing  them.  I  suppose  I  must 
have  covered  eight  or  ten  miles  of  pavement  before  walk- 
ing self-consciously  into  that  wine-shop,  and  sitting  down 
beside  a  little  metal  table.  I  know  now  that,  with  me, 
nervousness  generally  takes  the  form  of  marked  apparent 
nonchalance.  Doubtless,  this  is  due  to  concentrated 
effort  in  my  youth  to  produce  this  effect.  I  did  not 
know  the  name  of  a  single  Australian  wine  ;    but  I  re- 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  151 

membered  some  enthusiastic  comment  of  my  father's 
upon  the  '  admirable  red  wine  of  the  country,'  so  I  ordered 
a  glass  of  red  wine,  and,  with  an  amused  stare,  the  youth 
in  attendance  served  me. 

Like  many  of  the  wines  of  the  country  it  was  fairly 
potent  stuff,  and  rather  sweet  than  otherwise,  probably 
an  Australian  port.  I  sipped  it  with  the  air  of  one  who 
generally  devoted  a  good  portion  of  his  evenings  to  such 
dalliance,  and  ate  several  of  the  thin  biscuits  which  lay 
in  a  plate  on  the  table.  Meanwhile,  I  observed  closely 
the  other  sippers.  They  were  all  in  couples,  and  the 
snatches  of  their  conversation  which  I  heard  struck  me 
as  extraordinarily  dramatic  in  substance  ;  most  romantic, 
I  thought,  and  very  different  from  the  leisurely,  languid 
gossip  of  those  who  draw  patterns  in  the  dust  with  their 
clasp-knives,  and  converse  chiefly  about  '  baldy-faced 
steers,'  *  good  feed,'  '  heavy  bits  o'  road,'  and  the  like, 
with  generous  intervals  of  say  ten  or  twelve  minutes 
between  observations.  These  folk  in  the  wine-shop,  on 
the  contrary,  tripped  over  one  another  in  their  talk  ;  their 
hands  and  shoulders  and  brows  all  played  a  part,  as  well 
as  their  lips,  and  their  glances  were  charged  with  pene- 
trant meaning. 

As  I  made  my  way  gradually  down  to  Circular  Quay 
and  the  ferry,  some  one  stepped  out  athwart  my  path 
from  a  shadowy  doorway,  and  I  had  a  vision  of 
straw-coloured  hair,  pale  skin,  scarlet  lips,  a  woman's 
figure. 

4  Going  home,  dear  ?  What  about  coming  with  me  ? 
Come  on,  de-car  !  ' 

Somehow  I  knew  all  about  it.  Not  from  talk,  I  am 
sure.  Possibly  from  reading ;  possibly  by  instinct.  I 
felt  as  though  the  poor  creature  had  hit  me  across  the 
face  with  a  hot  iron.  I  tried  to  answer  her,  but  could 
not.  She  barred  my  path,  one  hand  on  my  arm.  It  was 
no  use ;  I  could  not  get  words  out.  Those  waiting 
seconds  were  horrible.     And  then  I  turned  and  fairly  ran 


152    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

from  her,  a  rather  hoarse  laugh  pursuing  me  among  the 
shadows  as  I  went. 

It  was  horrible,  and  affected  me  for  hours.  But  it  did 
not  spoil  my  outing.  No,  I  think  on  the  whole  it  added 
to  the  general  excitation.  I  had  a  sense  of  having  stepped 
right  out  into  the  deep  waters  of  life,  of  being  in  the 
current.  The  drama  of  life  was  touching  me  now ;  its 
sombre  and  tragical  side  as  well  as  the  rest  of  it. 

'  This  really  is  life,'  I  told  myself  as  the  ferry  bore  me 
among  twinkling  lights  across  the  harbour.  '  This  is  the 
big  world,  and  Dursley  hardly  was.' 

It  stirred  me  deeply.  The  harbour  itself ;  the  dim, 
mysterious  outlines  of  ships,  the  dancing  water,  the 
sense  of  connection  with  the  world  outside  Australia, 
the  very  latch-key  in  my  pocket,  and  the  thought  that  I 
would  presently  be  going  to  bed  at  my  lodgings,  in  a  room 
shared  by  an  experienced  and  rather  mysterious  man, 
with  a  past ;  all  combined  to  produce  in  me  a  stirring 
alertness  to  the  adventurous  interest  of  life. 

XIV 

One  of  the  odd  things  about  that  first  evening  of  mine  in 
Sydney  was  that  it  introduced  me  to  the  tobacco  habit, 
one  of  the  few  indulgences  which  I  have  never  at  any 
time  since  relinquished.  I  smoked  several  cigarettes  that 
evening,  with  steadily  increasing  satisfaction.  And,  on 
the  following  day,  acting  on  the  advice  of  my  room-mate, 
Mr.  Smith,  I  bought  a  shilling  briar  pipe  and  a  sixpenny 
plug  of  black  tobacco  as  a  week's  allowance.  From  that 
point  my  current  outgoings  were  increased  by  just  six- 
pence per  week,  no  less,  and  for  a  considerable  period,  no 
more. 

For  some  days,  at  least,  and  it  may  have  been  for 
longer,  Mr.  William  Smith  became  the  mentor  to  whom 
I  owed  the  most  of  such  urban  sophistication  as  I  ac- 
quired.    He  was  a  very  kindly  and  practical  mentor, 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  153 

worldly,  but  in  many  respects  not  a  bad  adviser  for  such  a 
lad  so  situated.  When  I  recall  the  stark  ugliness  of  his 
views  and  advice  to  me  regarding  a  young  man's  needs 
and  attitude  generally  where  the  opposite  sex  was  con- 
cerned, I  suppose  I  must  admit  that  a  moralist  would  have 
viewed  my  tutor  with  horror.  But,  particularly  at  that 
period,  I  am  not  sure  that  the  average  man  of  the  world, 
in  any  walk  of  life,  would  have  differed  very  much  from 
Mr.  Smith  in  this  particular  matter.  One  could  imagine 
some  quite  worthy  colonels  of  regiments  giving  not  wholly 
dissimilar  counsel  to  a  youngster,  I  think. 

Morning  and  evening  Mr.  Smith  applied  some  sort  of 
cosmetic  to  his  fine  grey  moustache,  which  kept  its  ends 
like  needles.  He  always  wore  white  or  biscuit-coloured 
waistcoats,  and  was  scrupulously  particular  about  his 
linen.  He  generally  had  an  air  of  being  fresh  from  his 
bath.  His  thin  hair  was  never  disarranged,  and  his  mood 
seemed  to  be  cheerfully  serene.  Summer  heats  drew 
plentiful  perspiration  from  him,  but  no  sign  of  languor  or 
irritation.  On  Sunday  mornings  he  stayed  in  bed  till 
ten-thirty,  with  the  Sydney  Bulletin,  and  on  the  stroke  of 
eleven  o'clock  he  invariably  entered  the  church  at  the 
corner  of  Mill  Street.  I  used  to  marvel  greatly  at  this, 
because  he  never  missed  his  bath,  and  his  Sunday  morning 
appearance  gave  the  impression  that  his  toilet  had  re- 
ceived the  most  elaborate  attention.  He  carried  an  ivory 
crutch-handled  malaeca  walking-stick,  and  in  church 
I  used  to  think  of  him  as  closely  resembling  Colonel 
Newoome.  His  voice  was  a  mellow  baritone,  he  never 
missed  any  of  the  responses ;  and  the  odour  which  hung 
about  him  of  soap  and  water,  cosmetic,  light  yellow  kid 
gloves,  and  good  tobacco — he  smoked  a  golden  plug,  very 
superior  to  my  cheap,  dark  stuff — seemed  to  me  at  that 
time  richly  suggestive  of  luxury,  sophistication,  dis- 
tinction, and  knowledge  of  affairs. 

Many  years  have  passed  since  I  set  eyes  on  Mr.  Smith, 
and  no  doubt  he  has  long  since  been  gathered  to  his 


154   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

fathers ;  but  I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying  that  his  was 
a  rather  remarkable  character.  I  know  now  that  he 
really  was  a  dipsomaniac  of  a  somewhat  unusual  kind. 
At  ordinary  times  he  touched  no  stimulant  of  any  sort. 
But  at  intervals  of  about  three  months  he  disappeared, 
quite  regularly  and  methodically,  and  always  with  a 
handbag.  To  what  place  he  went  I  do  not  know.  Neither 
I  think  did  Mrs.  Hastings  or  his  employers.  At  the  end 
of  a  week  he  would  reappear,  clothed  as  when  he  went 
away,  but  looking  ill  and  shaken.  For  a  few  days  after- 
wards he  was  always  exceedingly  subdued,  ate  little,  and 
talked  hardly  at  all.  But  by  the  end  of  a  week  he  was 
himself  again,  and  remained  perfectly  serene  and  normal 
until  the  time  of  his  next  disappearance.  I  once  happened 
to  see  the  contents  of  the  handbag.  They  consisted  of 
an  old,  rather  ragged  Norfolk  coat  and  trousers  and  a 
suit  of  pyjamas  ;  nothing  else. 

Mr.  Smith  was  a  sort  of  time-keeper  at  the  works  of 
Messrs.  Poutney,  Riggs,  Poutney  and  Co.,  the  wholesale 
builders'  and  masons'  material  people.  I  was  informed 
that  he  had  once  been  the  chief  traveller  for  this  old- 
established  firm,  on  a  salary  of  seven  hundred  pounds 
a  year,  with  a  handsome  commission,  and  all  travelling 
expenses  paid.  His  salary  now  was  two  pounds  twelve 
shillings  and  sixpence  a  week ;  and  I  apprehend  that  his 
services  were  retained  by  the  firm  rather  by  virtue  of 
what  he  had  done  in  the  past  than  for  the  sake  of  what 
he  was  doing  at  this  time.  I  was  told  that  commercial 
travelling  in  New  South  Wales,  when  Mr.  Smith  had  been 
in  his  prime,  was  a  dashing  profession  which  produced 
many  drunkards.  But  from  Mr.  Smith  himself  I  never 
heard  a  word  about  his  previous  life. 

I  recall  many  small  kindnesses  received  at  his  hands, 
and  at  the  outset  the  domestic  routine  of  my  Sydney  life 
was  largely  arranged  for  me  by  Mr.  Smith. 

'  Never  wear  a  collar  more  than  once,  or  a  white  shirt 
more  than  twice,'  was  one  of  the  first  instructions  I  re- 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  155 

ceived  from  him.  Subsequently  he  modified  this  a  little 
for  me,  upon  economic  grounds,  advising  me  to  take 
special  care  of  my  shirt  on  Sunday,  in  order  that  it  might 
serve  for  Monday  and  Tuesday.  '  Then  you  've  two  days 
each  for  the  other  two  shirts  in  each  week,  you  see.  But 
socks  and  collars  you  change  every  day.  In  Sydney  you 
must  never  wear  a  coloured  shirt ;  always  a  stiff,  white 
shirt,  in  Sydney.' 

On  my  second  evening  there  Mr.  Smith  took  me  to  a 
hatter's  shop  and  chose  a  billycock  hat  for  me,  in  place  of 
the  soft  felt  which  I  usually  wore. 

'  You  must  have  a  hard  hat  in  Sydney,'  he  said,  *  except 
in  real  hot  weather  ;  and  then  you  could  wear  a  flat  straw, 
if  you  liked.  I  prefer  a  grey  hard  hat  for  summer.  But 
straw  will  do  for  a  youngster.  You  should  have  a  pair 
of  gloves,  for  Sunday,  you  know.  They  're  useful,  too,  for 
interviewing  principals.' 

One  might  have  fancied  that  gloves  were  a  kind  of 
passport,  or  perhaps  a  skeleton  key  guaranteed  to  open 
principals'  doors.  It  was  Mr.  Smith  who  first  made 
me  feel  that  there  was  a  connection  between  morals,  re- 
spectability, and  cold  baths.  To  miss  the  morning  tub, 
as  Mr.  Smith  saw  it,  was  not  merely  a  calamity  but  also 
a  disgrace  ;  a  thing  to  make  one  ashamed  ;  a  lapse  cal- 
culated seriously  to  affect  character.  How  oddly  that 
does  clash,  to  be  sure,  with  his  views  of  a  young  man's 
relations  with  the  other  sex  !  And  yet,  I  am  not  so  sure. 
Shocked  as  many  people  would  be  by  those  views,  they 
might  admit  in  them  perhaps  a  sort  of  hygienic  intention. 
It  was  that  I  fancy,  more  than  anything  else,  which  did 
as  a  fact  shock  me.  As  companions,  co-equals,  fellow- 
humans,  I  believe  this  curious  man  absolutely  detested 
women.     I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  wife  he  had  had  !  .  .  . 

When  I  come  to  compare  my  launch  in  Sydney  with 
all  that  I  know  and  have  read  of  youthful  beginnings  in 
Old  World  centres,  I  marvel  at  the  luxurious  case  and  free- 
dom of  Australian  conditions.    To  put  it  into  figures  now 


156  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

■ — my  start  in  Sydney  did  not  cost  me  a  sovereign.  I  did 
not  spend  two  days  without  earning  more  than  enough  to 
defray  all  my  modest  outgoings.  My  search  for  employ- 
ment, so  far  from  wearing  out  shoe-leather,  was  confined 
to  a  single  application,  to  one  brief  interview.  This  was 
not  at  all  due  to  any  cleverness  on  my  part,  but  in  the 
first  place  to  the  good  offices  of  Mr.  Perkins  of  Dursley, 
and  in  the  second  place  to  the  easygoing  character  of 
prevailing  Australian  conditions. 

On  the  morning  after  my  first  evening's  dissipation  in 
Sydney,  I  made  my  way  to  the  business  premises  of  Messrs. 
Joseph  Canning  and  Son,  the  Sussex  Street  wholesale 
produce  merchants  and  commission  agents.  This  firm 
had  had  dealings  with  Dursley's  Omnigerentual  and 
Omniferacious  Agent  ever  since  his  first  appearance  in 
that  part,  and  it  was  no  doubt  because  of  this  that 
Mr.  Perkins  wrote  to  them  on  my  behalf.  After  waiting 
for  a  time  in  a  dark  little  chamber  containing  specimens 
of  cream  separators  and  churns,  I  was  taken  to  the  private 
room  of  Mr.  Joseph  Canning,  the  senior  partner,  who,  as 
I  was  presently  to  learn,  visited  the  office  chiefly  to  attend 
to  such  out-of-the-way  trifles  as  my  call,  to  smoke  cigars, 
and  to  take  selected  clients  out  to  lunch.  The  practical 
conduct  of  the  business  was  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
Mr.  John,  this  gentleman's  only  son. 

I  found  Mr.  Joseph  Canning  with  his  feet  crossed  on 
his  blotting-pad,  his  body  tilted  far  back  in  his  chair,  and 
his  first  morning  cigar  tilted  far  upward  between  his  teeth, 
its  ash  perilously  close  to  one  bushy  grey  eyebrow. 

*  Well,  me  lad,'  he  said  as  I  entered,  '  how 's  the 
Omniferacious  one  ?     Blooming  as  ever,  I  hope.' 

I  explained  that  I  had  left  Mr.  Perkins  in  the  best  of 
health,  and  proceeded  to  answer,  so  far  as  I  was  able, 
the  string  of  subsequent  questions  put  to  me  regarding 
the  town  of  Dursley,  its  principal  residents,  business  pro- 
gress, and  chief  hotel.  I  gathered  that  Mr.  Canning  had 
paid  one  visit  to  Dursley,  under  the  auspices  of  its  Omni- 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  157 

gerentual  Agent,  and  that  while  there  he  had  contrived, 
with  Mr.  Perkins's  assistance  no  doubt,  '  to  make  that 
little  town  fairly  hum.' 

We  talked  in  this  strain  for  some  time,  and  then 
Mr.  Canning  rose  from  his  chair,  clearly  under  the  im- 
pression that  his  business  with  me  had  been  satisfactorily 
completed,  and  prepared  to  dismiss  me  cordially,  and 
proceed  to  other  matters. 

4  Ah  !  '  he  ejaculated  cheerfully,  extending  his  right 
hand  to  me,  and  moving  toward  the  door.  '  Quite 
pleasant  to  have  a  chat  about  little  Dursley.  Well,  take 
care  of  yourself  in  the  big  city,  you  know — bed  by  ten 
o'clock,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know ;  and — er — 
never  touch  anything  in  the  morning.     Safest  plan.' 

By  this  time  the  door  was  open,  and  I,  on  the  thresh- 
old, was  feeling  considerably  bewildered.  With  a  great 
effort  I  managed  to  force  out  some  such  words  as  : 

'  And  if  vou  should  hear  of  any  sort  of  situation  that 
I ' 

At  that  he  grabbed  my  hand  again,  and  pulled  me  back 
into  the  room. 

4  Of  course,  of  course  !  God  bless  my  soul,  I  'd  clean 
forgotten  ! '  he  exclaimed  hurriedly  as  he  strode  across 
to  his  table  and  rang  a  bell. 

4  Ask  Mr.  John  to  kindly  step  this  way  a  minute,  will 
ye  ?  '  he  said  to  the  lad  who  answered  the  bell.  4  Forget 
me  name  next,  I  suppose,'  he  added  to  me  in  a  confidential 
undertone.  4  Tut,  tut !  And  I  read  Perkins's  letter 
again  just  before  you  came  in,  too  !  Ah,  here  you  are, 
John.     Come  in  a  minute,  will  you  ?  ' 

A  vigorous-looking  fair-haired  man  of  about  five-and- 
thirty  came  into  the  room  now,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  been  interrupted.  He  wore  no  coat,  and  his  spotless 
shirt-sleeves  were  held  well  up  on  his  arms  by  things  like 
garters  clasped  above  the  elbow. 

4  Ah,  John,'  began  his  father,  4  this  is  Mr.  Perkins's 
"  Nickpcrry  "  ;  you  remember  ?    Nick  Freydon.'     He  re- 


158   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

ferred  to  a  letter  on  the  table.  '  Shorthand,  you  know, 
and  all  that.     Well,  what  about  it  ?     D'jew  remember  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Well,  what  about  it  ?  '  This 
seemed  to  be  a  favourite  phrase  between  father  and  son. 

'  Well,  what  was  it  you  said  ?  Thirty-five  bob  for  a 
start,  eh  ?  Oh,  well,  you  '11  see  to  it,  anyway,  won't  you  ? 
That 's  right.     So  long — er — Nickperry  !  ' 

'  Good-morning,  sir  !  ' 

And  with  that  I  found  myself  following  Mr.  John  along 
a  darkish  passage  to  a  well-lighted  apartment,  divided 
by  a  ground-glass  partition  from  an  office  in  which  I  saw 
perhaps  eight  or  ten  clerks  at  work. 

'  Now,  Mr.  Freydon,'  said  my  guide,  as  he  flung  himself 
into  a  revolving  chair,  and  motioned  me  to  another  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  '  We  '11  make  it  no  more 
than  five  minutes,  please,  for  I  've  got  a  stack  of  letters 
to  answer,  and  some  men  to  see  at  eleven  sharp.' 

And  then  I  had  a  rather  happy  inspiration. 

'  Do  you  write  your  own  letters,  sir  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  Eh  ?  Oh,  Lord,  yes ! '  he  said  brusquely.  'I  know  some 
men  dictate  'em  to  clerks,  to  be  done  in  copper-plate,  an' 
all  that.  But,  goodness,  I  can  write  'em  myself  quicker  'n 
that !  And  we  have  to  be  mighty  careful  to  say  j  ust  the  right 
kind  of  thing  in  our  letters,  too.     It  makes  a  difference.' 

'  Well,  will  you  just  try  dictating  one  or  two  to  me,  sir, 
and  let  me  take  them  in  shorthand.  Then  I  would  bring 
them  to  you  when  you  have  seen  the  gentlemen  at  eleven.' 

'  Eh  ?  Well,  that 's  rather  an  idea.  Let 's  have  a 
shot.  Here  you  are  then.  Pencil  ?  Right  ?  Well  : 
"  Dear  Mr.  Gubbins,  yours  of  14th,  received  with 
thanks."  Got  that  ?  Yes  ;  well,  tell  him — that  is — 
"  You  are  quite  mistaken,  I  assure  you,  about  your  butter 
having  been  held  back  till  the  bottom  was  out  of  the 
market."  Old  fool 's  always  grousing  about  his  rotten 
butter.  You  see,  the  fact  is  his  butter  is  second  or  third 
quality  stuff,  and  he  reads  the  quotations  in  the  paper  for 
the  primest,  and  kicks  like  a  steer  because  he  doesn't  get 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  159 

the  same,  or  a  penny  more.  Always  threatening  to  change 
his  agents,  and  I  wish  to  God  he  would  ;  only,  o'  course,  it 
doesn't  do  to  tell  'em  so.  There  's  a  lot  like  Gubbins,  an' 
one  has  to  try  an'  sweeten  'cm  a  bit  once  a  week  or  so. 
Yes  1     Well,  where  were  we  ?     Eh  ?     That  all  right  ?  ' 

4  Yes,  sir.     "  Yours  faithfully,"  or  "  Yours  truly,"  sir  ?  ' 

1  Oh,  well,  I  always  say :  "  'shuring  you  vour  bes'  'ten- 
tion,  bleeve  me,  yours  faithfully,  J.  Canning  and  Son." 
It  pleases  them,  an' ' 

4  Yes,  sir.' 

And  some  of  the  others  were  a  good  deal  more  sketchy, 
but  fortunately  there  were  only  five  in  all.  I  asked 
Mr.  John  to  let  me  take  the  original  letters.  It  was  plain 
that  dictation  was  not  his  strong  point.  Neither,  I  thought, 
had  he  much  idea  of  letter- writing;  whereas  I,  so  I  flattered 
myself,  could  do  it  rather  well.  At  least  I  had  read  some- 
thing about  commercial  correspondence,  and  had  also  read 
the  published  letters  of  many  famous  people.  So,  as  soon 
as  I  decently  could,  I  pretended  Mr.  John  had  really  dic- 
tated replies  to  his  five  letters,  and  that  I  had  recorded  his 
words  in  indelible  shorthand.  Then  I  said  I  would  run 
away  and  write  the  letters  while  he  kept  his  engagements. 

1  Right !  '  he  said.  '  Tell  you  what.  Go  into  my 
father's  room.  He 's  gone  out  now,  and  you  '11  find 
parxr  and  that  there.' 

So  I  made  my  first  practical  essay  in  commercial  corre- 
spondence from  the  chair  of  the  head  of  the  firm,  and 
among  the  fumes  of  the  head's  morning  cigar. 

In  an  old  pocket-book  I  disco  vend  a  year  or  two  ago 
the  draft  of  the  first  letter  I  wrote  for  J.  Canning  and  Son. 
Here  it  is  : 

*  To  Mr.  R.  B.  (ii  hiiink. 
'  Kerndala  Farm, 

'Unaville,  NSW. 

'  Noe.  3rrf,  1879. 

4  Dear  Mr.  Gubbins, — Thank  you  for  your  letter  of 
the   2nd   inst.     We   have  looked  carefully  into  the 


160   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

matter  of  your  complaint,  and  are  glad  to  be  able  to 
assure  you  that  your  fears  are  quite  unnecessary.  We 
were,  of  course,  prepared  to  take  the  matter  up 
seriously  with  those  responsible,  but  investigation 
proved  that  there  had  been  no  delay  whatever  in 
disposing  of  your  last  consignment  of  butter.  It 
happened,  however,  that  an  exceptionally  large 
supply  of  the  very  primest  qualities  were  on  offer 
that  morning,  and  though  one  or  two  may  have 
reached  higher  prices,  as  the  result  of  exceptional 
circumstances,  the  bulk  changed  hands  at  the  price 
obtained  for  yours,  and  many  consignments  at  a 
lower  figure.  In  several  cases  the  prices  given  in 
the  newspapers  are  either  incorrect,  or  apply  only  to 
one  or  two  special  lots. 

'  In  conclusion,  permit  us  to  assure  you,  dear 
Mr.  Gubbins,  that  while  your  interests  are  entrusted 
to  our  hands  they  will  always  receive  the  closest 
possible  attention,  and  that  nothing  will  be  left  un- 
done which  could  be  in  any  way  of  benefit  to  you. 

'  Trusting  this  will  make  the  position  perfectly 
clear  to  you,  and  that  you  will  be  under  no  further 
anxiety  with  regard  to  your  consignments  to  us,  now, 
or  at  any  future  time. — We  are,  dear  Mr.  Gubbins, 
yours  faithfully,' 

In  the  same  unexceptional  style  I  wrote  to  four  other 
clients,  after  very  careful  perusal  of  their  letters,  com- 
bined with  reflections  upon  Mr.  John's  running  commen- 
taries. As  I  wrote  what  my  father  had  called  '  an  almost 
painfully  legible  and  blameless  hand,'  and  gave  the  closest 
care  to  these  particular  letters,  their  appearance  was  toler- 
ably business-like  when  finished.  Carrying  these  letters, 
and  those  they  answered,  I  now  began  to  reconnoitre 
passages  and  doorways  to  ascertain  the  whereabouts  and 
occupation  of  Mr.  John.  Presently  I  saw  him  come  hurrying 
in  from  the  street,  wiping  his  lips  with  a  handkerchief. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  161 

4  The  letters,  sir,'  I  began. 

4  Ah !  Got  'em  done  already  ?  Right.  Come  into 
my  room.' 

I  stood  and  watched  him  reading  my  effusions,  at  first 
with  upward  twitching  brows,  and  then  with  smiling 
satisfaction. 

4  H'm  !  '  he  said,  as  he  gave  them  the  firm's  signature. 
*  It 's  a  pretty  good  thing  then,  this  shorthand.  Wonder- 
ful the  way  you  've  got  every  little  word  down.  That 
44  In  conclusion,  permit  us  to  assure  you,  dear  Mr.  Gub- 
bins  " — now,  that 's  as  a  business  letter  should  be,  you 
know.  There  's  not  a  house  in  Sussex  Street  turns  out 
such  good  sweeteners  as  we  do.  I  've  always  been  very 
careful  about  that.  That 's  how  we  keep  up  our  con- 
nection. These  farmers  are  touchy  beggars,  you  know ; 
but  if  only  you  take  the  right  tone  with  'em,  you  can 
twist  'em  round  your  little  finger.  That 's  why  I  always 
lay  it  on  pretty  thick  in  the  firm's  letters.  It  pays,  I  can 
assure  you.' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

4  Well,  that 's  very  good,  Mr.  Freydon  ;  very  good. 
We  've  never  had  this  shorthand  in  the  office  before  ;  but 
I  think  it 's  time  we  did,  high  time.  It 's  no  use  my 
wasting  valuable  time  writing  all  these  letters  myself, 
and  with  this  shorthand  of  yours,  I  believe  you  can  take 
'cm  down  as  fast  as  I  can  say  it — eh  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes,  sir  ;  easily,'  I  said,  with  shameless  mendacity. 
As  a  fact,  neither  that  morning,  nor  at  any  other  time,  did 
I  4  take  down  '  what  Mr.  John  said  in  shorthand.  But  it 
\\a->  already  apparent  to  me  that  he  could  be  made  quite 
happy  by  fancying  that  the  lctt*  rs  wen  of  his  composition, 
and  I  did  not  conceive  that  it  was  part  of  my  duty  to 
undeceive  him. 

4  Ah  !  Well,  now,  when  could  you  begin  work,  Mr. 
Freydon  ?  ' 

I  smiled,  and  told  him  I  could  <,ro  on  at  once  with  any 
further  letters  h<-  had. 


162   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

'  Yes,  yes  ;  to  be  sure.  Begun  already,  as  you  say. 
Well,  I  told  the  old — I  told  my  father  I  thought  thirty- 
five  shillings  a  week  would —  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what. 
You  go  ahead  as  you  've  begun,  and  at  the  end  of  a  month 
we  '11  make  your  pay  two  pounds  a  week.  How  '11  that 
suit  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you,  sir  ;  that  will  suit  me  very  well.' 

'  Right.  By  the  way,  don't  say  "  sir  "  to  me,  please. 
They  all  call  me  "  Mr.  John,"  and  my  father  "  Mr.  Can- 
ning." See  !  Now,  I  '11  just  introduce  you  to  Mr. 
Meadows,  our  accountant,  and  he  will  show  you  round. 
Mr.  Meadows  has  charge  of  our  clerical  staff,  you  under- 
stand ;  but  you  '11  have  most  to  do  with  me,  of  course. 
There  's  a  little  bit  of  a  room  opposite  mine,  where  we 
keep  the  stationery  an'  that.  I  dare  say  you  '11  be  able  to 
work  there.' 

In  this  wise,  then,  with  most  fortunate  ease,  I  secured 
my  first  employment  in  the  capital  city  ;  and  very  well  it 
suited  me,  for  the  present.  Within  a  week  I  found  that 
I  was  left  to  open  all  letters,  and  to  deal  with  them  very 
much  as  I  thought  best,  with  references  of  course  to 
Mr.  John,  and  at  times,  in  a  matter  of  accounts,  to 
Mr.  Meadows,  or  again  to  the  storekeeper  and  others.  It 
was  not  good  shorthand  practice,  but  his  correspondence 
pleased  Mr.  John  very  much — especially  its  more  rotund 
phrases — whilst  for  my  part  I  keenly  relished  the  fact 
that  I,  the  most  junior  member  of  the  staff,  had  really 
less  of  supervision  in  my  work  than  any  one  else  in  the 
office. 

Upon  the  whole  I  was  entitled,  on  that  evening  of  my 
first  day  in  the  Sussex  Street  offices,  to  feel  that  I  had 
made  a  tolerably  creditable  beginning,  and  that  Sydney 
had  treated  the  latest  suppliant  for  her  favour  rather  well. 
What  I  very  well  remember  I  did  feel  was  that  I  should 
have  an  interesting  story  for  Mr.  William  Smith  that 
night  when  I  reached  '  my  rooms  '  at  North  Shore. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  163 


XV 

My  third  day  at  J.  Canning  and  Son's  offices  was  a 
Saturday,  and  the  establishment  closed  at  one  o'clock. 
My  room-mate,  Mr.  Smith,  had  invited  me  to  spend  the 
afternoon  with  him  at  Manly,  the  favourite  sea-beach 
resort  close  to  Sydney  Heads.  I  had  other  plans  in 
view,  but  did  not  like  to  refuse  Mr.  Smith,  and  so  spent 
the  time  with  him,  not  without  enjoyment. 

Manly  was  not,  of  course,  the  thronged  and  crowded 
place  it  is  to-day,  but  its  Saturday  afternoon  visitors  were 
fairly  numerous,  and  most  of  them  were  people  who  showed 
in  a  variety  of  ways  that  they  did  not  have  to  consider 
very  closely  the  expenditure  of  a  sovereign  or  so.  For  our 
part,  Mr.  Smith's  and  mine,  I  doubt  if  our  outing  cost 
more  than  five  shillings;  and,  though  I  succeeded  in  paying 
my  own  boat-fares,  my  companion  insisted  upon  settling 
himself  for  the  refreshments  we  had  :  a  cup  of  tea  in  the 
afternoon,  and  a  sort  of  high  tea  or  supper  before  leaving. 
I  had  not  begun  to  tire  of  watching  people,  and  was  inno- 
cent enough  to  derive  keen  satisfaction  from  the  thought 
that  I,  too,  was  one  of  these  city  folk,  business  people, 
office  men,  who  gave  their  Saturday  leisure  to  the  quest 
of  ocean  breezes  and  recreation  in  this  well-known  resort. 

Yes,  from  this  distance,  it  is  a  little  hard  to  realise 
perhaps,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  at  this  particular  time  I  was 
genuinely  proud  of  being  a  clerk  in  an  office,  in  place  of 
being  a  handy  lad,  and  one  of  the  manual  workers.  It 
was  my  lot  in  later  years  to  dictate  considerable  corre- 
spondence to  young  men  who  practised  shorthand  and 
typewriting — they  called  themselves  secretaries,  not 
correspondence  clerks — and  I  always  felt  an  interest  in 
their  characters  and  affairs,  and  endeavoured  to  show 
them  even-  consideration.  But  I  cannot  say  that  those 
who  served  me  in  this  capacity  ever  played  just  the  sort 
of  part  I  played  as  a  correspondence  clerk  in  Sussex  Street. 


164   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

But  they  always  interested  me,  none  the  less,  and  I  showed 
them  special  consideration ;  no  doubt  because  I  remem- 
bered a  period  when  I  took  much  secret  pride  and  satis- 
faction in  having  obtained  entrance  to  their  ranks,  from 
what  in  all  countries  which  I  have  visited  is  accounted  a 
lowlier  walk  of  life.  And  yet,  as  I  see  it  now,  I  must 
confess  that  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  handy  lad  in  the 
open  air  has  rather  the  best  of  it.  I  admit  this  is  open 
to  question,  however.  Fortunately  there  are  compen- 
sations in  both  cases. 

'For  a  young  fellow  you  do  a  lot  of  thinking,'  said 
Mr.  Smith  to  me  as  we  walked  slowly  down  to  the  ferry 
stage  in  leaving  Manly.  Of  course  I  indulged  in  one  of 
my  idiotic  blushes. 

'  No  ;  oh  no,'  I  told  him.  '  I  was  only  watching  the 
people.' 

'  Well,  there  's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  thinking,' 
he  justly  said.  '  If  most  of  the  youngsters  in  Sydney  did 
a  deal  more  of  it,  it  would  be  a  lot  better  for  them.' 

'Ah,  you  mean  thinking  about  their  work.'  I  knew 
instinctively,  and  because  of  remarks  he  had  made,  that 
my  elderly  room-mate  thought  well  of  me  as  being  a  very 
practical  lad,  seriously  determined  to  get  on  in  the  world. 
And  so,  also  instinctively,  I  played  up,  as  they  say,  to  this 
view  of  my  character,  and  I  dare  say  overdid  it  at  times  ; 
certainly  to  the  extent  of  making  myself  appear  more 
practical,  or  more  concentrated  upon  material  progress, 
than  I  really  was. 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,'  said  Mr.  Smith  as  we 
boarded  the  steamer.  '  Business  isn't  the  only  thing  in 
life,  and  there  are  plenty  other  things  worth  thinking 
about.'  Yes,  odd  as  it  seems,  it  was  I  who  was  being 
reminded  that  there  were  other  things  worth  thinking  of 
besides  business  ;  I  .  .  .  '  No,  but  it  would  be  better 
for  'em  to  do  a  lot  more  thinking  about  all  kinds  of  things. 
Thinking  is  better  than  running  after  little  chits  of  girls 
who  ought  to  be  smacked  and  put  to  bed.' 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  165 

Two  refulgent  youths  had  just  passed  us,  in  the  wake  of 
damsels  whose  favour  they  apparently  sought  to  win  as 
favour  is  perhaps  won  in  poultry-yards — by  cackling. 

4 1  've  had  to  do  a  powerful  lot  of  talking  in  my  time,* 
continued  Mr.  Smith  ;  '  and  now  I  like  to  see  any  one,  and 
especially  any  young  fellow,  understand  that  it 's  not 
necessary  to  talk  for  talking's  sake,  and  that  when  you  've 
nothing  particular  to  say,  it 's  better  to  be  quiet  and  think, 
than — than  just  to  blither,  as  so  many  do.' 

I  endeavoured  to  look  as  much  as  possible  like  a  deep 
thinker  as  I  acquiesced,  and  made  mental  note  of  the 
fact  that  I  had  evidently  been  rather  neglecting  my 
companion. 

'  Mind  you,'  he  added,  '  it  isn't  only  in  office  hours  and 
at  his  work  that  a  man  makes  for  success  in  business. 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  It 's  when  he  's  thinking  things  out 
away  from  the  office.  Why,  some  of  the  best  business 
I  ever  brought  off  I  've  really  done  in  bed — the  planning 
out  of  it,  you  know.' 

I  nodded  the  understanding  sympathy  of  a  wily  and 
experienced  hand  at  business.  I  wonder  if  the  average 
youth  is  equally  adaptive  !  Probably  not,  for  I  suppose 
it  means  I  was  a  good  deal  of  a  humbug.  All  I  knew  of 
business,  so  far,  was  what  Sussex  Street  had  shown  me  ; 
and  if  I  had  been  perfectly  candid,  I  should  have  admitted 
that,  so  far  from  striking  me  as  interesting,  it  seemed  to 
me  absurdly,  incredibly  dull  and  uninteresting ;  so  much 
so  as  to  have  a  guise  of  unreality  to  me.  But  my  letters 
interested  me  none  the  less. 

The  facts  of  the  situation  were  unreal.  I  cared  nothing 
about  Canning  and  Son's  profits,  or  the  prices  of  Mr. 
Gubbins's  butter ;  nothing  whatever.  But  I  derived 
considerable  satisfaction  from  turning  out  a  letter  the 
fluent  suavity  of  which  I  thought  would  impress  Mr. 
Gubbins.  Primarily,  my  satisfaction  came  from  the  im- 
pression the  letters  made  upon  me  personally.  Also,  I 
enjoyed  the  sense  of  importance  it  gave  me  to  open  the 


166   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

firm's  letters  myself,  and  to  tell  myself  that,  given  certain 
bald  facts  to  be  acquired  from  this  man  or  the  other,  I 
could  reply  to  them  far  better  than  Mr.  John  could.  I 
liked  to  make  him  think  my  smugly  correct  phrasing  was 
his  own,  because  I  knew  it  was  much  more  polished,  and 
I  thought  it  much  more  effective  than  his  own  ;  and  I 
liked  to  figure  myself  a  sort  of  anonymous  power  behind 
the  throne — the  Sussex  Street  throne  ! 

As  we  breasted  the  hill  together  from  the  North  Shore 
landing-place,  Mr.  Smith  delivered  himself  of  these 
sapient  words,  designed,  I  am  sure,  to  be  of  real  help 
to  me : 

'  What  they  call  success  in  life  is  a  simple  business, 
really ;  only  nobody  thinks  so,  and  so  very  few  find  it 
out.  They  're  always  looking  round  for  special  dodges, 
and  wasting  time  following  up  special  methods  recom- 
mended by  this  fool  or  the  other.  There  's  only  one 
thing  wanted  really  for  success,  and  that 's  just  keeping 
on.  Just  keeping  on  ;  that 's  all.  If  you  never  let  go  of 
yourself — never,  mind  you,  but  just  keep  on,  steady  and 
regular,  you  can't  help  succeeding.  It  just  comes  to  you. 
But  you  must  keep  on.  It 's  no  good  having  a  shot  at 
this,  and  trying  the  other.     The  way  is  just  to  keep  on.' 

My  mentor  was  in  a  seriously  practical  vein  on  this 
Saturday  night ;  partly  perhaps  because,  as  the  event 
proved,  he  was  within  four  days  of  one  of  his  periodical 
disappearances. 

XVI 

In  the  early  afternoon  of  Sunday  I  set  out  upon  the 
visit  I  had  originally  intended  to  pay  on  the  previous  day. 

Three  o'clock  found  me  rather  nervously  ringing  a  bell 
at  the  door  of  Filson  House  in  Macquarie  Street.  Under 
the  brightly  polished  bell-pull  was  the  name  C.  F.  Raw- 
lence,  and  the  legend  :  '  Do  not  ring  unless  an  answer  is 
required.'  It  was  my  first  experience  of  such  a  notice, 
and    I    felt    uncertain    how   it  was   intended    to   apply. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  167 

Neither  for  the  moment  could  I  understand  why  in  the 
world  any  sane  person  should  ring  a  bell  unless  desirous 
of  eliciting  a  response  of  some  kind.  Finally,  I  decided 
that  it  must  be  a  plaintive  and  exceedingly  trustful  appeal 
to  the  good  nature  of  urchins  who  might  be  tempted  to 
ring  and  run  away. 

A  smiling  young  Chinaman  presently  opened  the  door 
to  me,  and  said  :  '  You  come  top-side  alonga  me,  pease ; 
Mr.  Lollancc  he  's  in.' 

So  I  walked  upstairs  behind  the  silent,  felt-shod  Asiatic, 
and  wondered  what  was  coming  next.  I  had  hitherto 
associated  Chinamen  in  Australia  exclusively  with  market- 
gardening  and  laundry  work.  The  house  was  not  a  very 
high  one,  but  it  really  was  its  '  top-side  '  we  walked  to,  and, 
arrived  there,  I  was  shown  into  what  I  thought  must 
certainly  be  the  largest  and  most  magnificent  apartment 
in  Sydney. 

I  dare  say  the  room  was  thirty  feet  long  by  twenty  feet 
wide,  without  counting  the  huge  fireplace  at  one  end, 
which  formed  a  room  in  itself,  and  did  actually  accom- 
modate several  easy  chairs,  though  I  cannot  think  the 
weather  was  ever  cold  enough  in  Sydney  to  admit  of 
people  sitting  so  close  to  a  log  fire  as  these  chairs  were 
placed.  There  were  suits  of  armour,  skins  of  beasts, 
strange  weapons,  curious  tapestries,  and  other  stock 
properties  of  artists'  studios,  all  conventional  enough,  and 
yet  to  me  most  startling.  I  had  never  before  visited  a 
studio,  and  did  not  know  that  artists  affected  these  things. 
The  magnificence  of  it  all  impressed  me  enormously.  It 
almost  oppressed  me  with  a  sense  of  my  own  temerity  in 
venturing  to  visit  any  one  who  maintained  such  state. 

'This  is  what  it  means  to  be  a  famous  artist,'  I  told 
myself,  well  assured  now,  in  my  innocence,  that  Mr.  Raw- 
lence  must  be  very  famous.  '  Every  one  else  probably 
knew  it  before,1  I  thought.  And  just  then  the  great  man 
himself  appeared,  not  at  the  door  behind  me,  but  between 
heavy  curtains  which  hid  some  other  entrance.     lie  came 


168   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

forward  with  a  welcoming  smile.  Then,  for  a  moment 
this  gave  place  to  rather  blank  inquiry.  And  then  the 
smile  returned  and  broadened. 

'  Why,  it 's —  No,  it  can't  be.  But  it  is — my  young 
friend  of  St.  Peter's.  I  'm  delighted.  Welcome  to 
Sydney.    Sit  down,  sit  down,  and  let  me  have  your  news.' 

He  reclined  in  a  sidelong  way  upon  a  sort  of  ottoman, 
and  gracefully  waved  me  to  an  enormous  chair  facing  him. 

'  There  are  always  a  few  charitable  souls  who  drop  in 
upon  me  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  but  I  'd  no  idea  you 
would  be  the  first  of  them  to-day.' 

Here  was  a  disturbing  announcement  for  me  ! 

'  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  convenient  if  I  came  one 
evening,  Mr.  Rawlence,'  I  said  awkwardly,  half  rising 
from  the  chair. 

'  Tut,  tut,  my  dear  lad  !  Sit  down,  sit  down.  Why 
should  other  visitors  disturb  you  ?  There  will  only  be 
good  fellows  like  yourself.  Ladies  are  rarities  here  on 
a  Sunday.  And  in  any  case —  Why,  you  are  quite 
the  man  of  the  world  now.'  This  with  kindly  admira- 
tion. Then  he  screwed  up  his  eyes,  moved  his  head  back- 
ward and  from  side  to  side,  as  though  to  correct  his  view 
of  a  picture.  '  Just  one  point  out  of  the  picture.  Dare 
I  alter  it  ?  May  I  ?  '  And,  stepping  forward,  he  thrust 
well  down  in  my  breast  coat  pocket  Mrs.  Gabbitas's 
gorgeous  silk  handkerchief.  '  Yes,'  as  he  moved  back- 
ward again,  '  that 's  better.  One  never  can  see  these 
things  for  oneself.  But  let  me  make  sure  of  your  im- 
portant news  before  we  are  interrupted.' 

So  I  told  my  story  as  well  as  I  could,  and  Mr.  Rawlence 
was  in  the  act  of  expressing  his  kindly  interest  therein, 
when  I  heard  steps  and  voices  on  the  stairs  below. 

'  If  you  're  not  otherwise  engaged  you  must  stay  till 
these  fellows  go,  Nick,'  said  my  host.  '  We  haven't  half 
finished  our  talk,  you  know.  And — er — if  you  should  be 
talking  to  any  one  here  of — er — your  present  situation,  I 
should  leave  it  quite  vague,  if  I  were  you  ;  secretarial  work 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  169 

you  know — something  of  that  sort.  We  may  have  some 
newspaper  men  here  who  might  be  useful  to  you  one  day 
— you  follow  me  ?  ' 

4  Ah  !  Hail !  Good  of  you  to  have  come,  Landon. 
Ah,  Foster !  Jones  !  Good  men !  Do  find  seats.  Oh,  let 
me  introduce  a  new  arrival — Mr.  Nicholas  Freydon  ; 
Mr.  Landon,  the  disgracefully  well-known  painter,  Mr. 
Foster  and  Mr.  Jones,  both  of  the  Fourth  Estate,  though 
frequently  taken  for  quite  respectable  members  of  society. 
We  may  not  have  a  Fleet  Street  here,  you  know,  Frey- 
don, but  we  have  one  or  two  rather  decent  newspapers,  as 
you  may  have  noticed.' 

He  turned  to  the  still  smiling  young  Chinaman.  '  Let 's 
have  cigars  and  cigarettes,  Ah  Lun.' 

I  gathered  that  I  had  been  presented  as  a  new  arrival 
from  England.  It  was  rather  startling ;  but  so  far  I 
found  that  an  occasional  smile  was  all  that  seemed  ex- 
pected of  me,  and  I  was  of  course  anxious  to  do  my  best. 
4  Good  thing  I  've  started  smoking,'  I  thought,  as  Ah  Lun 
began  passing  round  two  massive  silver  boxes,  with  cigars 
and  cigarettes.  The  visitors  were  mostly  young,  rather 
noticeably  young,  I  thought,  in  view  of  the  greying  hair 
over  Mr.  Rawlence's  temples ;  and  I  felt  less  and  less 
alarmed  as  I  listened  to  their  talk.  In  fact,  shamelessly 
disrespectful  though  the  idea  was,  I  found  myself,  after 
a  while,  wondering  whether  Mr.  Smith  might  not  have 
called  some  of  the  conversation  '  cackle.'  And  then 
some  technicalities,  journalistic  and  artistic,  began  to  star 
the  talk,  and  I  meekly  rebuked  my  own  presumption. 
But  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  Mr.  Smith  would  have 
called  most  of  it  *  cackle,'  and  it  is  possible  he  would 
have  been  tolerably  near  the  truth. 

Within  an  hour  I  had  been  introduced  to  perhaps  a 
score  of  visitors,  and  Ah  Lun  was  just  as  busy  as  he  could 
bo,  serving  tea,  whisky,  wine,  soda-water,  cigars,  cigar- 
ettes, sandwiches,  and  so  forth.  It  was  all  tremendously 
exciting  to  me.     The   mere   sound   of  so   many  voices, 


170    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

apart  from  anything  else,  I  found  wonderfully  stimulating, 
if  a  trifle  bewildering. 

'  This,'  I  told  myself,  in  a  highly  impressive,  though 
necessarily  inarticulate  stage-whisper  of  thought,  '  This 
is  Society  ;  this  is  what 's  called  the  Social  Vortex  ;  and 
I  am  right  in  the  bubbling  centre  of  it.'  And  then  I 
thought  how  wonderful  it  would  have  been  if  Mr.  Jokram, 
of  Dursley's  School  of  Arts  Committee,  and  one  or  two 
others — say,  Sister  Agatha,  for  example — could  have 
been  permitted  to  take  a  peep  between  the  magnificent 
curtains,  and  have  a  glimpse  of  me,  engaged  in  brilliant 
conversation  with  a  celebrity  of  some  kind,  whose  neck- 
tie would  have  made  an  ample  sash  for  little  Nelly  Fane 
— of  me,  the  St.  Peter's  orphan,  in  Society  ! 

Truly,  I  was  an  innocent  and  unlicked  cub.  But  I 
believe  I  managed  to  pull  through  the  afternoon  without 
notably  disgracing  my  distinguished  host  and  patron  ; 
and,  too,  without  referring  even  to  '  secretarial  work.'  I 
might  have  been  heir  to  a  dukedom,  a  distinguished  remit- 
tance man,  or  even  a  congenital  idiot,  for  all  the  company 
was  allowed  to  gather  from  me  as  to  my  means  of  liveli- 
hood. 

XVII 

Towards  six  o'clock  the  company  began  to  thin  out 
somewhat,  and  within  the  hour  I  found  myself  once  more 
alone  with  Mr.  Rawlence. 

'  Well,  and  what  do  you  think  of  these  few  represen- 
tatives of  Sydney's  Bohemia  ?  '  asked  my  host.  '  They 
are  not,  perhaps,  leading  pillars  of  our  official  society, 
as  one  may  say — the  Government  House  set,  you  know — 
but  my  Sunday  afternoon  visitors  are  apt  to  be  pretty 
fairly  representative  of  our  best  literary  and  artistic 
circles,  I  think.  Interesting  fellows,  are  they  not  ?  I 
was  glad  to  notice  you  had  a  few  words  with  Foster,  the 
editor  of  the  Chronicle.     If  you  still  have  literary  or  jour- 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  1 71 

nalistic  ambitions,  and  have  not  been  entirely  captivated 
by  the  pundits  of  commerce  and  money-making,  Foster 
might  be  of  material  assistance  to  you.' 

Just  then  Ah  Lun  passed  before  us  (still  smiling),  carry- 
ing a  tray  full  of  used  glasses. 

1  We  '11  have  a  bit  of  dinner  here,  Ah  Lun.  I  won't  go 
out  to-night.  I  dare  say  you  have  something  we  can 
pick  over.     Let  us  know  when  it 's  ready.' 

Really,  as  I  look  back  upon  it,  I  see  even  more  clearly 
than  at  the  time  that  the  artist  was  extraordinarily  kind 
to  me ;  to  an  obscure  and  friendless  youth,  none  too 
presentable,  and  little  likely  just  then  to  do  him  credit. 
I  would  prefer  to  set  down  here  only  that  which  I  under- 
stood and  felt  at  the  time.  Perhaps  that  is  not  quite 
possible,  in  the  light  of  subsequently  acquired  knowledge 
and  experience.  This  much  I  can  say :  there  was  no  hint 
at  this  time  of  any  wavering  or  diminution  in  the  almost 
worshipful  regard  I  felt  for  Mr.  Rawlencc. 

Seen  in  his  own  chosen  setting,  he  was  the  most  magni- 
ficent person  I  had  met.  jEstheticism  of  a  pronounced 
sort  was  becoming  the  fashion  of  the  day  in  London  ; 
and,  as  I  presently  found,  Mr.  Rawlencc  followed  the 
fashions  of  London  and  Paris  closely.  Indeed,  I  gathered 
that  at  one  time  he  had  settled  down,  determined  to  live 
and  to  end  his  days  in  one  or  other  of  those  Old  World 
capitals.  But  after  a  year  divided  between  them,  he  had 
re  tunnel  to  Sydney,  and  gradually  formed  his  Macquarie 
Street  home  and  social  connections.  No  doubt  he  was 
a  more  important  figure  then-  than  he  would  have  been 
in  Europe.  His  private  income  made  him  easily  inde- 
pendent of  earnings  artistic  or  otherwise.  I  apprehend 
he  lived  at  the  rate  of  about  a  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
or  a  little  more,  which  meant  a  good  dial  in  Sydney  in 
those  days.  I  remember  being  told  at  one  time  that  he 
did  not  earn  fifty  pounds  in  a  year  as  a  painter;  but,  of 
course.  I  could  not  answer  for  that. 

I  think  he  derived  his  greatest  satisfactions  from  the 


172   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

society  of  young  aspirants  in  art,  literature,  and  journal- 
ism ;  and  I  incline  to  think  it  was  more  to  please  and 
interest,  to  serve  and  to  impress  these  neophytes,  than 
from  any  inclination  of  his  own,  that  he  also  assiduously 
cultivated  the  society  of  a  few  maturer  men  who  were 
definitely  placed  in  the  Sydney  world  as  artists,  writers, 
editors,  and  so  forth.  But  such  conclusions  came  to  me 
gradually,  of  course.  I  had  not  thought  of  them  during 
that  delightfully  exciting  experience — my  first  visit  to  the 
Macquarie  Street  studio. 

The  simple  little  dinner  was  for  me  a  thrilling  episode. 
The  deft-handed  Chinaman  hovering  behind  our  chairs, 
the  softly  shaded  table-lights,  the  wine  in  tall,  fantasti- 
cally shaped  Bohemian  glasses,  the  very  food — all  un- 
familiar, and  therefore  fascinating  :  olives,  smoked  salmon 
— to  which  I  helped  myself  largely,  believing  it  to  be 
sliced  tomato — a  cold  bird  of  sorts,  no  slices  of  bread  but 
little  rolls  in  place  of  them,  no  tea,  and  no  dishes  ever 
seen  in  Mrs.  Gabbitas's  kitchen,  or  at  my  North  Shore 
lodging.  And  then  the  figure  of  my  host,  lounging  at 
table  in  the  rosy  light,  a  cigarette  between  the  shapely 
fingers  of  his  right  hand — I  had  not  before  seen  any  one 
smoke  at  the  dinner-table — his  brown  velvet  coat,  his 
languidly  graceful  gestures,  the  delicate  hue  of  his  flow- 
ing neck-tie,  the  costly  sort  of  negligence  of  his  whole 
dress  and  deportment — all  these  trifling  matters  were 
alike  rare  and  exquisite  in  my  eyes. 

After  their  fashion  the  day,  and  in  particular  the  even- 
ing, were  an  education  for  me.  I  spent  a  couple  of  hours 
over  the  short  homeward  journey  to  Mill  Street,  the  better 
to  savour  and  consider  my  impressions.  The  previous 
day  belonged  to  my  remote  past.  I  had  travelled  through 
ages  of  experience  since  then.  For  example,  I  quite 
definitely  was  no  longer  proud  of  being  a  clerk  in  an  office. 
As  I  realised  this  I  smiled  down  as  from  a  great  height 
upon  a  recollection  of  the  chorus  of  a  Scots  ditty  sung 
by  a  sailor  on  board  the  Ariadne.     I  have  no  notion  of 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  173 

how  to  spell  the  words,  but  they  ran  somewhat  in  this 
wise  : 

'  Wi"  a  Hi  heu  honal,  an'  a  honal  heu  hi, 
(omelachie,  Ecclefechan,  Ochtermochty  au'  Mulgye, 
Wi'  a  Mi  heu  honal,  an'  a  honal  heu  hi, 
It's  a  braw  thing  a  clairk  in  an  orfiss.' 

Well,  it  was  no  such  a  braw  thing  to  me  that  night,  as 
it  had  seemed  on  the  previous  day.  I  had  heard  the 
word  '  commercial '  spoken  with  an  intonation  which  I 
fancied  Mr.  Smith  would  greatly  resent.  But  I  did  not 
resent  it.  And  that  was  another  of  the  fruits  of  my  im- 
mense experience  :  Mr.  Smith  would  never  again  hold 
first  place  as  my  mentor.  How  could  he  ?  Why,  even 
some  of  my  own  innocent  notions  of  the  past — of  pre- 
Macquarie  Street  days — seemed  nearer  the  real  thing  than 
one  or  two  of  poor  Mr.  Smith's  obiter  dicta.  I  had  noted 
the  hats  of  that  elect  assemblage,  and  there  had  not  been 
a  billycock  among  them.  Not  a  single  example  of  the 
headgear  which  Mr.  Smith  held  necessary  for  the  self- 
respecting  man  in  Sydney  !  But,  on  the  contrary,  there 
had  been  quite  a  number  of  a  kind  which  approximated 
more  or  less  to  the  soft  brown  hat  purchased  by  me  in 
Dursley,  and  discarded  upon  Mr.  Smith's  urgent  recom- 
mendation in  favour  of  the  more  rigid  and  precise  billy- 
cock. I  reflected  upon  this  significant  fact  for  quite  a 
long  while. 

Certainly,  the  world  was  a  very  wonderful  place.  Was 
it  possible  that  a  week  ago  I  had  been  a  handy  lad, 
dressed  merely  in  shirt  and  trousers,  and  engaged  in  plant- 
ing out  tomatoes  ?  I  arrived  at  the  comer  of  Mill  Street, 
and  turning  on  my  heel  walked  away  from  it.  I  wanted 
to  try  over,  out  loud,  one  or  two  such  phrases  as  these  : 

4  I  've  been  dining  with  an  artist  friend  in  Macquaric 
Street !  '  —  'I  \v;is  saying  this  afternoon  to  the  editor 
of  the  Chronicle'1  —  lI  met  some  delightful  people  at 
my  friend  Mr.  Hawlcncc's  studio  tins  afternoon  !  ' 

But,  uj)on  the  whole,  there  was  a  more  subtle  joy  in  the 


174   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

enunciation  of  certain  other  remarks,  supposed  to  come 
from  somebody  else  : 

'  I  met  Mr.  Freydon,  Mr.  Nicholas  Freydon,  you  know, 
this  afternoon.  He  had  looked  in  at  Rawlence's  studio 
in  Macquarie  Street.  In  fact,  I  believe  he  stayed  there 
to  dinner  before  going  on  to  his  rooms  at  North  Shore. 
Rawlence  certainly  does  get  all  the  most  interesting 
people  at  his  place.  Landon,  the  painter,  was  deep  in 
conversation  with  Mr.  Freydon.  No,  I  don't  know  what 
Mr.  Freydon  does — some  secretarial  appointment,  I  fancy. 
He  's  evidently  a  great  friend  of  Rawlence's.' 

It  is  surprising  that  I  can  set  these  things  down  with 
no  particular  sense  of  shame.  I  distinctly  remember 
striding  along  the  deserted  roads,  speaking  these  absur- 
dities aloud,  in  an  only  slightly  subdued  conversational 
voice.  My  mood  was  one  of  remarkable  exaltation.  I 
wonder  if  other  young  men  have  been  equally  mad  ! 

'  How  d'  ye  do,  Foster  ?  '  I  would  murmur  airily  as  I 
swung  round  a  corner.  '  Have  you  seen  my  new  book  ?  '  ; 
or,  '  I  noticed  you  published  that  article  of  mine  yester- 
day !  '  Presently  I  found  myself  in  open,  scrub-covered 
country,  and  singing,  quite  loudly,  the  old  sailor's  doggerel 
about  its  being  a  braw  thing  to  be  a  '  clairk  in  an  orfiss  '  ; 
my  real  thought  being  that  it  was  a  braw  thing  to  be 
Nicholas  Freydon,  a  clerk  in  an  office,  who  was  very  soon 
to  be  something  quite  otherwise. 

I  am  not  quite  sure  if  this  mood  was  typical  of  the 
happy  madness  of  youth.  There  may  have  been  a  lament- 
able kind  of  snobbery  about  it ;  I  dare  say.  I  only  know 
this  was  my  mood  ;  these  were  my  apparently  crazy 
actions  on  that  remote  Sunday  night.  And,  too,  before 
getting  into  bed  that  night — fortunately  for  himself, 
perhaps,  poor  Mr.  Smith  was  already  asleep,  and  so  safe 
from  my  loquacity — I  carefully  folded  the  two  magni- 
ficent rainbow-hued  silk  handkerchiefs  which  good  Mrs. 
Gabbitas  had  given  me,  and  stowed  them  away  at  the 
very  bottom  of  my  ancient  carpet-bag. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  175 

The  sort  of  remarks  which  I  had  been  addressing  to  the 
moon  were  not  remarks  which  I  ever  should  have  dreamed 
of  addressing  to  any  human  being.  I  think  in  justice  I 
might  add  that.  But  I  had  greatly  enjoyed  hearing 
myself  say  them  to  the  silent  night. 

XVIII 

Actually,  I  dare  say  the  process  of  one's  sophistication 
was  gradual  enough.  But  looking  back  now  upon  my 
Durslcy  period,  and  the  four  years  spent  in  Sydney — and, 
indeed,  my  stay  in  the  Orphanage,  and  my  life  with  my 
father  in  Livorno  Bay — it  appears  to  me  that  my  growth, 
education,  development,  whatever  it  may  be  called,  came 
at  intervals,  jerkily,  in  sudden  leaps  forward.  The  truth 
probably  is  that  the  development  was  constant  and  steady, 
but  that  its  symptoms  declared  themselves  spasmodically. 

It  would  seem  that  there  ought  to  have  been  a  phase 
of  smart,  clerkly  dandyism  ;  but  perhaps  Mr.  Rawlcnce's 
kindly  hospitality  in  Macquarie  Street  nipped  that  in  the 
bud,  substituting  for  it  a  kind  of  twopenny  aesthcticism, 
which  made  me  affect  floppy  neckties  and  a  studied  negli- 
gence of  dress,  combined  with  some  neglect  of  the  barber. 
In  these  things,  as  in  certain  other  matters,  there  were 
some  singular  contradictions  and  inconsistencies  in  me, 
and  I  was  distinctly  precocious.  The  precocity  was  due, 
I  take  it,  to  the  fact  that  I  had  never  known  family  life, 
and  that  my  companions  had  always  been  older  than 
myself.  I  fancy  that  most  people  I  met  supposed  me  to 
be  at  least  three  or  four  years  older  than  I  was,  and  were 
sedulously  encouraged  by  me  in  that  supposition.  I  was 
precocious,  too,  in  another  way.  I  could  have  grown  a 
beard  and  moustache  at  seventeen.  Instead,  I  assidu- 
ously plied  the  razor  night  and  morning,  and  derived 
satisfaction  from  something  which  irritated  me  greatly 
in  later  years — the  remarkably  rapid  and  sturdy  growth 
of  my  beard. 


176   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

As  against  these  extravagances  I  must  record  the  fact 
that  my  parsimony  in  monetary  matters  survived. 
Mr.  John,  in  Sussex  Street,  presently  raised  my  salary  to 
two  pounds  ten  shillings  a  week  ;  but  I  continued  to  share 
Mr.  Smith's  bedroom,  and  to  pay  only  sixteen  shillings 
weekly  for  my  board  and  lodging.  What  was  more  to 
the  point,  I  was  equally  careful  in  most  other  matters 
affecting  expenditure,  and  never  added  less  than  a  pound 
each  week  to  my  savings  bank  account ;  an  achievement 
by  no  means  always  equalled  in  after  years,  even  when 
earnings  were  ten  times  larger.  I  may  have,  and  did 
indulge  in  the  most  extravagant  conceits  of  the  mind. 
But  these  never  seriously  affected  my  pocket. 

There  is  perhaps  something  rather  distasteful  in  the 
idea  of  so  much  economic  prudence  in  one  so  young.  A 
certain  generous  carelessness  is  proper  to  youth.  Well, 
I  had  none  of  it,  at  this  time,  in  money  matters.  And, 
distasteful  or  not,  I  am  glad  of  it,  since,  at  all  events,  it 
had  this  advantage  :  at  a  very  critical  period  I  was  pre- 
served from  the  grosser  and  more  perilous  indulgences 
of  youth.  When  the  time  did  arrive  at  which  I  ceased 
to  be  very  careful  in  money  spending,  I  had  presumably 
acquired  a  little  more  balance,  and  was  a  little  safer  than 
in  those  adolescent  Sydney  years. 

Here  again  my  qualities  were  presumably  the  product 
of  my  condition  and  circumstances.  To  be  left  quite 
alone  in  the  world  while  yet  a  child,  as  I  had  been,  does, 
I  apprehend,  stimulate  a  certain  worldly  prudence  in 
regard,  at  all  events,  to  so  obvious  a  matter  as  the  balance 
of  income  and  expenditure.  I  felt  that  if  I  were  ever 
stranded  and  penniless  there  would  be  no  one  in  the  whole 
world  to  lend  me  a  helping  hand,  or  to  save  me  from  being 
cut  adrift  from  all  that  I  had  come  to  hold  precious,  and 
flung  back  into  the  slough  of  manual  labour — for  that, 
curiously  enough,  is  how  I  then  regarded  it.  Not,  of 
course,  that  I  had  found  manual  work  in  itself  unpleasant 
in   any   way ;    but   that   I   then   considered    my   escape 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  177 

from  it  had  carried  mc  into  a  social  and  mental  atmo- 
sphere superior  to  that  which  the  manual  worker  could 
reach. 

Except  when  he  was  absent  from  Sydney,  Mr.  Rawlence 
always  received  his  friends  at  the  Macquarie  Street  studio 
on  Sundays,  and  none  was  more  regular  in  attendance 
than  myself.  It  would  be  very  easy,  of  course,  to  be  sar- 
castic at  Mr.  Rawlence's  expense  ;  to  poke  fun  at  the  well- 
to-do  gentleman  approaching  middle  age,  who  clung  to 
the  pretence  of  being  a  working  artist,  and  to  avoid 
criticism,  or  because  more  mature  workers  would  not  seek 
his  society,  liked  to  surround  himself  with  neophytes — a 
Triton  among  minnows.  And  indeed,  as  I  found,  there 
were  those — some  old  enough  to  know  better,  and  others 
young  enough  to  be  more  generous — who  were  not  above 
adopting  this  attitude  even  whilst  enjoying  their  victim's 
hospitality  ;    aye,  and  enjoying  it  greedily. 

But  neither  then  nor  at  any  subsequent  period  was  I 
tempted  to  ridicule  a  man  uniformly  kind  and  helpful 
to  me  ;  and  this,  not  at  all  because  I  blinded  myself  to  his 
weaknesses  and  imperfections,  but  because  I  found,  and 
still  find,  these  easily  outweighed  by  his  good  and  genuinely 
kindly  qualities.  His  may  not  have  been  a  very  dignified 
way  of  life  ;  it  was  too  full  of  affectations  for  that ; 
particularly  after  he  began  to  be  greatly  influenced  by 
the  rather  sickly  aesthetic  movement  then  in  vogue  in 
London.  But  it  was,  at  least,  a  harmless  life  ;  and, 
upon  the  whole,  a  generous  and  kindly  one. 

Its  influence  upon  me,  for  example,  tended,  I  am  sure, 
to  give  me  a  pronounced  distaste  for  the  coarse  and 
vulgar  sort  of  dissipation  which  very  often  engaged  the 
leisure  of  my  office  companions,  and  other  youths  of 
similar  occupation  in  Sydney.  It  may  be  that  the  causes 
behind  my  aloofness  from  mere  vulgar  frivolity,  and 
worse,  were  pretty  mixed  :  part  pride,  <>r  even  conceit, 
and  part  prudence  or  parsimony.  No  matter.  The  in- 
fluence was  helpful,  for  the  abstention  was  real,  and  the 

M 


178   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

distaste  grew  always  more  rooted  as  time  wore  on.  Also, 
the  same  influence  tended  to  make  me  more  fastidious, 
more  critical,  less  crude  than  I  might  otherwise  have 
been.  It  led  me  to  give  more  serious  attention  to  pictures, 
music,  and  literature  of  the  less  ephemeral  sort  than  I 
might  otherwise  have  given.  It  was  not  that  Mr.  Raw- 
lence  and  his  friends  advised  one  to  study  Shakespeare, 
or  to  attend  the  better  sort  of  concerts,  or  to  learn 
something  of  art  and  criticism.  But  talk  that  I  heard 
in  that  studio  did  make  me  feel  that  it  was  eminently 
desirable  I  should  inform  myself  more  fully  in  these 
matters. 

Listening  to  a  discussion  there  of  some  quite  worthless 
thing  more  than  once  moved  me  to  the  investigation  of 
something  of  real  value.  I  was  still  tolerably  credulous, 
and  when  a  man's  casual  reference  suggested  that  he  and 
every  one  else  was  naturally  intimate  with  this  or  that, 
I  would  make  it  my  business,  so  far  as  might  be,  really 
to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  the  matter.  I  assumed, 
often  quite  mistakenly,  no  doubt,  that  every  one  else 
present  had  this  particular  knowledge.  Thus  the  spirit 
of  emulation  helped  me  as  it  might  never  have  done  but 
for  Mr.  Rawlence  and  his  sumptuous  studio,  so  rich  in 
everything  save  examples  of  his  own  work. 

I  fancy  it  must  have  been  fully  a  year  after  my  arrival 
in  Sydney  that  I  met  Mr.  Foster,  the  editor  of  the 
Chronicle,  as  I  was  walking  down  from  Sussex  Street  to 
Circular  Quay  one  evening. 

'  Ah,  Freydon,'  he  said  ;  '  what  an  odd  coincidence  I 
I  was  this  moment  thinking  of  you,  and  of  something  you 
said  last  Sunday  at  Rawlence's.  I  can't  use  the  article 
you  sent  me.  It 's —  Well,  for  one  thing,  it 's  rather 
too  much  like  fiction  ;  like  a  story,  you  know.  But,  tell 
me,  what  do  you  do  for  a  living  ?  ' 

'  I  'm  a  correspondence  clerk,  at  present,  in  a  Sussex 
Street  business  house.' 

'  H'm  !     Yes,  I  rather  thought  something  of  the  sort — 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  17& 

and  very  good  practical  training,  too,  I  should  say.  But 
I  gather  you  are  keen  on  press  work,  eh  ?  ' 

I  gave  an  eager  affirmative,  and  the  editor  nodded. 

4  Ye — es,'  he  said  musingly  as  we  turned  aside  into 
Wynyard  Square.  *  I  should  think  you  'd  do  rather  well 
at  it.  But,  mind  you,  I  fancy  there  are  bigger  rewards 
to  be  won  in  business.' 

4  If  there  are,  I  don't  want  them,'  I  rejoined,  with  a 
warmth  that  surprised  myself. 

4  Ah  !  Well,  there  's  only  one  way,  you  know,  in  jour- 
nalism as  in  other  things.  One  must  begin  at  the  foun- 
dations, and  work  right  through  to  the  roof.  I  '11  tell  you 
what ;  if  you  'd  care  to  come  on  the  Chronicle — report- 
ing, you  know — I  could  give  you  a  vacancy  now.' 

No  doubt  I  showed  the  thrill  this  announcement  gave 
me  when  I  thanked  him  for  thinking  of  me. 

1  Oh,  that 's  all  right.  There  's  no  favour  in  it.  I 
wouldn't  offer  it  if  I  didn't  think  you  'd  do  full  justice  to 
it.  And,  mind  you,  there  's  nothing  tempting  about  it, 
financially  at  all  events.  I  couldn't  start  you  at  more 
than  two  or  three  pounds  a  week.' 

Now  here,  despite  my  elation,  I  spoke  with  a  shrewd- 
ness often  recalled,  but  rarely  repeated  by  me  in  later  life. 
A  curious  thing  that,  in  one  so  young,  and  evidence  of  one 
of  the  inconsistencies  about  my  development  which  I 
have  noted  before  in  this  record. 

1  Oh,  well,'  I  said,  '  I  should  not,  of  course,  like  to  lose 
money  by  the  change  ;  but  if  you  could  give  mc  three 
pounds  a  week  I  shouldn't  be  losing,  and  I  'd  be  delighted 
to  come.' 

It  falls  to  be-  noted  that  I  was  earning  two  pounds  ten 
shillings  a  week  from  Messrs.  J.  Canning  and  Son  at  that 
time.  I  do  not  think  there  was  anything  dishonest  in 
what  I  said  to  Foster  ;  but  it  certainly  indicated  a  kind 
of  business  sharpness  which  has  been  rather  noticeably 
lacking  in  my  later  life.  The  editor  nodded  ready  agree- 
ment, and  it  was  in  this  way  that  I  first  entered  upon 
journalistic  employment. 


180   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


XIX 

The  work  that  I  did  as  the  most  junior  member  of  the 
Chronicle's  literary  staff  no  doubt  possessed  some  of  the 
merits  which  usually  accompany  enthusiasm. 

Memory  still  burdens  me  with  the  record  of  one  or  two 
articles  thought  upon  which  makes  my  skin  twitch  hotly. 
It  is  remarkable  that  matter  so  astoundingly  crude  should 
have  seen  the  light  of  print.  But,  when  one  comes  to 
think  of  it,  the  large,  careless  newspaper-reading  public, 
the  majority,  remains  permanently  youthful  so  far  as 
judgment  of  the  written  word  is  concerned  ;  and  so  it 
may  be  that  raw  youngsters,  such  as  I  was  then,  can  ap- 
proach the  majority  more  nearly  than  the  tried  and  trained 
specialist,  who,  just  in  so  far  as  he  has  specialised  as  a 
journalist,  has  removed  himself  from  the  familiar  pur- 
view of  the  general,  and  acquired  an  outlook  which,  to 
this  extent,  is  exotic. 

At  all  events,  I  know  I  achieved  some  success  with 
articles  in  the  Chronicle  of  a  sort  which  no  experienced 
journalist  could  write,  save  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  ; 
and  tongue-in-the-cheek  writing  never  really  impressed 
anybody.  What  seems  even  more  strange  to  me,  in  the 
light  of  later  life  and  experience,  is  the  fact  that  upon 
several  occasions  I  proved  of  some  value  to  the  business 
side  of  the  Chronicle.  My  efforts  actually  brought  the 
concern  money,  and  increased  circulation.  I  find  this 
most  surprising,  but  I  know  it  happened.  There  were 
due  solely  to  my  initiative  '  interviews '  with  sundry 
leading  lights  in  commerce,  and  in  the  professional  sport- 
ing world,  which  were  highly  profitable  to  the  paper ; 
and  this  at  a  time  when  the  '  interview  '  was  a  thing 
practically  unknown  in  Australian  journalism. 

Stimulated  perhaps  by  the  remarks  of  the  good  Mr. 
Smith,  my  room-mate,  I  planned  ventures  of  this  kind 
in  bed,  descending  fully  armed  with  them  upon  Mr.  Foster 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  181 

by  day,  in  most  cases  to  fire  him,  more  or  less,  by  my  own 
enthusiasm.  Upon  the  whole  I  earned  my  pay  pretty 
well  while  working  for  the  Chronicle,  even  having  regard 
to  the  several  small  increases  made  therein.  If  I  lacked 
ability  and  experience,  I  gave  more  than  most  of  my 
colleagues,  perhaps,  in  concentration  and  initiative. 

The  two  things  most  salient,  I  think,  which  befell  in  this 
phase  of  my  life  were  my  determination  to  go  to  England, 
and  my  only  adolescent  love  affair  ;  this,  as  distinguished 
from  the  sentimental  episodes  of  infancy  and  childhood, 
which  with  me  had  been  a  rather  prolific  crop. 

The  determination  to  make  my  way  to  England,  the 
land  of  my  fathers,  did  not  take  definite  shape  until 
comedy,  with  a  broad  smile,  rang  down  the  curtain  upon 
my  love  affair.  But  I  fancy  it  had  been  a  long  while  in 
the  making.  I  am  not  sure  but  what  the  germ  of  it  began 
to  stir  a  little  in  its  husk  even  at  St.  Peter's  Orphanage  ; 
I  feel  sure  it  did  while  I  browsed  upon  English  fiction  in 
my  little  wooden  room  beside  the  tool-shed  at  Dursley. 
It  was  near  the  surface  from  the  time  I  began  to  visit 
Mr.  Rawlcncc's  studio  in  Macquaric  Street,  and  busily 
developing  from  that  time  onward,  though  it  did  not 
become  a  visible  and  admitted  growth,  with  features  and 
a  shape  of  its  own,  until  more  than  two  years  had  elapsed. 
Then,  quite  suddenly,  I  recognised  it,  and  told  myself  it 
was  for  this  really  that  I  had  been  '  saving  up.' 

In  the  Old  World  the  adventurous-minded,  enterprising 
youth  turns  naturally  from  contemplation  of  the  hum- 
drum security  of  the  multitudinously  trodden  path  in 
which  he  finds  himself  to  thoughts  of  the  large  new  lands  ; 
of  those  comparatively  untried  and  certainly  uncrowded 
uplands  of  the  world,  which,  apart  from  the  other  chances 
and  attractions  they  offer,  possess  the  advantage  of  lying 
oversea,  from  the  beaten  track — over  the  hills  and  far 
away.  '  Here,'  he  may  be  supposed  to  feel,  as  he  gazes 
about  him  in  his  familiar.  Old  World  environment,  '  there 
is  nothing  but  what  has  been  tried  and  exploited,  sifted 


182   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

through  and  through  time  and  again,  all  adown  the  cen- 
turies. What  chance  is  there  for  me  among  the  crowd, 
where  there  is  nothing  new,  nothing  untried  ?  Whereas, 
out  there — '  Ah,  the  magic  of  those  words,  *  Out 
there  ! '  and  '  Over  there  ! '  for  home-bred  youth !  It  is 
good,  wholesome  magic,  too,  and  it  will  be  a  bad  day  for 
the  Old  World,  a  disastrous  day  for  England,  when  it 
ceases  to  exercise  its  powers  upon  the  hearts  and  imagina- 
tions of  the  youth  of  our  stock. 

Well,  and  in  the  New  World,  in  the  case  of  such  sprawling 
young  giants  among  the  nations  of  the  future  as  Australia, 
what  is  the  master  dream  of  adventurous  and  enterprising 
youth  there  ?  Australia,  like  Canada,  has  its  call  of  the 
west  and  the  north,  with  their  appealing  tale  of  untried 
potentialities.  Canada  has  also,  across  its  merely  figura- 
tive and  political  southern  border,  a  vast  and  teeming 
world,  reaching  down  to  the  equator,  and  comprising 
almost  every  possible  diversity  of  human  effort  and 
natural  resource.  Australia,  the  purely  British  island  con- 
tinent, is  more  isolated.  But,  broadly  speaking,  the  very 
facts  which  make  the  enterprising  Old  World  youth  fix 
his  gaze  upon  the  New  World  cause  the  same  type  of  youth 
in  Australia,  for  example,  to  look  home-along  across  the 
seas,  toward  those  storied  islands  of  the  north  which,  it 
may  be,  he  has  never  seen  :  the  land  which,  in  some 
cases,  even  his  parents  have  not  seen  since  their  childhood. 

'  Here,'  he  may  be  imagined  saying,  as  he  looks  about 
him  among  the  raw  uprising  products  of  the  new  land, 
where  the  past  is  nothing  and  all  hope  centres  upon  the 
future,  '  Here  everything  is  yet  to  do ;  everything  is  in 
the  making.  Here,  money  's  the  only  reward.  Who  's 
to  judge  of  one's  accomplishment  here  ?  Fame  has  no 
accredited  deputy  in  this  unmade  world.  Whereas,  back 
there,  at  home — '  Oh,  the  magic  of  those  words  '  At 
Home  !  '  and  '  In  England  ! '  alike  for  those  who  once 
have  seen  the  white  cliffs  fade  out  astern,  and  for  those 
who  have  seen  them  only  in  dreams,  bow  on  ! 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  183 

Everything  has  been  tried  and  accomplished  there. 
The  very  thought  that  speeds  the  emigrant  pulls  at  the 
heart-strings  of  the  immigrant ;  drawing  home  one  son 
from  the  outposts,  while  thrusting  out  another  toward 
the  outposts,  there  to  learn  what  England  means,  and  to 
earn  and  deserve  the  glory  of  his  birthright.  That,  in 
a  nutshell,  is  the  real  history  of  the  British  Empire.  .  .  . 

But,  as  I  said,  before  final  recognition  of  the  deter- 
mination to  go  to  England  came  my  youthful  love  affair. 
With  every  apparent  deference  toward  the  traditions  of 
romance,  I  fell  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  my  chief ; 
and  my  fall  was  very  thorough  and  complete.  I  was  in 
the  editorial  sanctum  one  afternoon,  discussing  some 
piece  of  work,  and  getting  instructions  from  Mr.  Foster — 
*  G.F.'  as  we  called  him — when  the  door  was  flung  open, 
as  no  member  of  the  staff  would  ever  have  opened  it,  and 
two  very  charming  young  women  fluttered  in,  filling  the 
whole  place  by  their  simple  presence  there.  One  was 
dark  and  the  other  fair :  the  first,  my  chief's  daughter 
Mabel ;  the  second,  her  bosom  friend,  Hester  Prinsep. 

'  Oh,  father,  we  're  all  going  down  to  see  Tommy  off. 
I  want  to  get  some  flowers,  and  I  've  come  out  without  a 
penny,  so  I  want  some  money.' 

My  chief  had  risen,  and  was  drawing  forward  a  chair  for 
Miss  Prinsep.  I  do  not  think  he  intended  to  pay  the  same 
attention  to  his  daughter,  but  I  did,  and  received  a  very 
charming  smile  for  my  pains.  Upon  which  G.F.  presented 
me  in  due  form  to  both  ladies.  Turning  then  to  his 
daughter,  he  said  with  half-playful  severity  : 

4  You  know,  Mabel,  we  arc  not  accustomed  to  your 
rough  and  ready  Potts  Point  manners  here.  We  knock  at 
doors  before  we  open  them,  and  do  at  least  inquire  if  a 
man  is  engaged  before  we  swoop  down  upon  him  demand- 
ing his  money  or  his  life.' 

4  Father  !  as  though  I  should  think  of  you  as  being  en- 
gaged !  And  as  for  the  money  part,  I  thought  this  was 
the  very  place  to  come  to  for  money.' 


184   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

'  Ah  !     Well,  how  did  you  come  ?  ' 

'  The  cab  's  waiting  outside.' 

'  Dear  me  !  You  may  have  noticed,  Freydon,  that 
cabmen  are  a  peculiarly  gallant  class.  They  don't  show 
much  inclination  to  drive  us  about  when  we  have  no 
money,  do  they  ?  ' 

Then  he  turned  to  Miss  Prinsep.  '  And  so  your  brother 
really  starts  for  England  to-day,  Hester  ?  I  almost  think 
I  '11  have  to  make  time  to  dash  down  and  wish  him  luck.' 

'  Oh,  do,  Mr.  Foster  !     Tommy  would  appreciate  it.' 

'  Yes,  do,  father,'  echoed  Miss  Foster.  '  Come  with  us 
now.     That  will  be  splendid.' 

'No,  I  can't  manage  that.  You  go  and  buy  your 
flowers,  and  I  '11  try  and  get  aw?y  in  time  to  take  you 
both  home.  Here  's  a  sovereign  ;  and —  Ah  !  you  'd 
better  have  some  silver  for  your  cab.  H'm  !  Here  you 
are.' 

'  Thanks  awfully,  father.  You  are  a  generous  dear. 
That  will  be  lots.  The  cab  's  Gurney's,  you  see,  so  I  can 
tell  him  to  put  it  down  in  the  account.  But  the  silver  's 
sure  to  come  in  handy,  for  I  'm  dreadfully  poor  just  now.* 

G.F.  shrugged  his  shoulders,  with  a  comic  look  in  my 
direction.  '  Feminine  honesty !  Take  the  silver,  and 
tell  the  cabman  to  charge  me  !  Freydon,  perhaps  you  'd 
be  kind  enough  to  see  this  brigand  and  her  friend  to  their 
cab,  will  you  ?  I  think  we  are  all  clear  about  that  article,, 
aren't  we  ?  Right !  On  your  way  ask  Stone  to  come 
in  and  see  me,  will  you  ?  ' 

So  he  bowed  us  out,  and  I,  in  a  state  of  most  agreeable 
fluster,  escorted  the  ladies  to  their  waiting  cab. 

'  Good-bye,  Mr.  Freydon,'  said  Mabel  Foster  as  she 
gave  me  her  softly  gloved  little  hand  over  the  cab  door. 
And,  from  that  moment,  I  was  her  slave  ;  only  realising 
some  few  minutes  later  that  I  had  been  so  unpardonably 
rude  as  never  even  to  have  glanced  in  Miss  Prinsep's 
direction,  to  say  nothing  of  bidding  her  good-bye. 
Miss  Foster's  was  a  well  recognised  and  conventional 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  185 

kind  of  beauty,  very  telling  to  ray  inexperienced  eyes, 
and  richly  suggestive  of  romance.  Her  eyes  were  large, 
dark,  and,  as  the  novelists  say,  '  melting.'  Her  face  was 
a  perfectly  regular  oval,  having  a  clear  olive  complexion, 
with  warm  hints  of  subdued  colour  in  it.  Her  lips  were 
most  provocative,  and  all  about  the  edges  of  that  dark 
cloud,  her  hair,  the  light  played  fitfully  through  a  lattice 
of  stray  tendrils.  A  very  pretty  picture  indeed,  Miss 
Foster  was  perfectly  conscious  of  her  charms,  and  a 
mistress  of  coqucttishness  in  her  use  of  them.  A  true 
child  of  pleasure-loving  Sydney,  she  might  have  posed 
with  very  little  preparation  as  a  Juliet  or  a  Desdemona, 
and  to  my  youthful  fancy  carried  about  with  her  the 
charming  gaiety  and  romantic  tenderness  of  the  most 
delightful  among  Boccaccio's  ladies.  (Sydney  was  just 
then  beginning  to  be  referred  to  by  writers  as  the  Venice  of 
the  Pacific,  and  I  was  greatly  taken  with  the  comparison.) 

A  week  or  so  later,  I  was  honoured  by  an  invitation  to 
dine  at  my  chief's  house  one  Saturday  night ;  and  from 
that  point  onward  ray  visits  became  frequent,  my  sub- 
jugation unquestioning  and  complete.  This  was  the  one 
brief  period  of  my  youth  in  which  I  flung  away  prudence 
and  became  youthfully  extravagant,  not  merely  in  thought 
but  in  the  expenditure  of  money.  I  suppose  fully  half 
my  salary,  for  some  time,  was  given  to  the  purchase  of 
sweets  and  flowers,  pretty  booklets  and  the  like,  for  Mabel 
Foster ;  and,  of  the  remainder  of  my  earnings,  the  tailor 
took  heavier  toll  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

For  example,  when  that  first  invitation  to  dinner 
reached  me — on  a  Monday — I  had  never  had  my  arras 
through  the  sleeves  of  a  dress-coat.  Mr.  Smith  kindly 
offered  the  loan  of  his  time-honoured  evening  suit,  point- 
ing out,  I  dare  say  truly,  that  such  garments  were  being 
1  cut  very  full  just  now.'  Hut.  no ;  I  felt  that  the 
occasion  demanded  an  epoch-marking  plunge  on  my  part; 
and  to  this  end  Mr.  Smith  was  good  enough  to  introduce 
me  to  his  own  tailor,  through  whom,  as  I  understood,  I 


186   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

•could  obtain  the  benefit  of  some  sort  of  trade  reduction  in 
price,  by  virtue  of  Mr.  Smith's  one  time  position  as  a 
commercial  traveller. 

During  the  week  the  eddies  caused  by  my  plunge  pene- 
trated beyond  the  world  of  tailoring,  and  doubtless  pro- 
duced their  effect  upon  the  white  tie  and  patent  leather 
shoe  trade.  But  despite  my  lavish  preparations,  Saturday 
afternoon  found  me  in  the  blackest  kind  of  despair.  Fully 
dressed  in  evening  kit,  I  had  been  sitting  on  my  bed  for  an 
hour,  well  knowing  that  all  shops  were  closed,  and  facing 
the  lamentable  fact  that  I  had  no  suitable  outer  garment 
with  which  to  cloak  my  splendour  on  the  way  to  Potts 
Point.  It  was  Mr.  Smith  who  discovered  the  omission, 
and  he,  too,  who  had  made  me  feel  the  full  tragedy  of  it. 
The  covert  coat  he  pressed  upon  me  would  easily  have 
buttoned  behind  my  back,  and  Mrs.  Hastings's  kindly  offer 
of  a  shawl  (a  vivid  plaid  which  she  assured  me  had  been 
worn  and  purchased  by  no  less  an  authority  upon  gentle- 
men's wear  than  her  father)  had  been  finally,  almost 
bitterly,  rejected  by  me. 

It  was  then,  when  my  fate  seemed  blackest  to  me,  that 
Mr.  Smith  discovered  in  the  prolific  galleries  of  his  well- 
stored  memory  the  fact  that  it  was  perfectly  permissible 
for  a  gentleman  in  my  case  to  go  uncovered  by  any  outer 
robe,  providing — and  this  was  indispensable — that  he 
carried  some  preferably  light  cloak  or  overcoat  upon  his 
arm. 

'  And  the  weather  being  close  and  hot,  too,  as  it  cer- 
tainly is  to-night,  I  '11  wager  you  '11  find  you  're  quite  in 
the  mode  if  you  get  to  Potts  Point  with  my  covert  coat 
on  your  arm.     So  that  settles  it.' 

It  did  ;  and  I  was  duly  grateful.  It  certainly  was  a  hot 
evening,  and  in  no  sense  any  fault  of  Mr.  Smith's  that  its 
warmth  brought  a  heavy  thunderstorm  of  rain  just  as  I 
began  my  walk  up  the  long  hill  at  Potts  Point,  so  that, 
taking  shelter  here  and  there,  as  opportunity  offered,  but 
not  daring  to  put  on  the  enormously  over-large  coat,  I 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  187 

finally  ran  up  to  the  house  in  pouring  rain,  with  a  coat 
neatly  folded  over  one  arm.  A  few  years  later,  no  doubt, 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  slip  the  coat  on,  or  fling  it  over 
my  head.     But — it  did  not  happen  a  few  years  later.  .  .  . 

My  worshipful  adoration  of  Miss  Foster  made  me 
neglectful  even  of  Mr.  Rawlence's  Sunday  afternoon  recep- 
tions. To  secure  the  chance  of  being  rewarded  by  five 
minutes  alone  with  her,  in  the  garden  or  elsewhere,  I 
suppose  I  must  have  given  up  hundreds  of  hours  from  a 
not  very  plentiful  allowance  of  leisure.  And  it  is  sur- 
prising, in  retrospect,  to  note  how  steadfast  I  was  in  my 
devotion  ;    how  long  it  lasted. 

The  young  woman  had  ability  ;  there  's  not  a  doubt  of 
that.  For,  ardent  though  I  was,  she  allowed  no  em- 
barrassing questions.  I  am  free  to  suppose  that  my  de- 
votion was  not  unwelcome  or  tiresome  to  her,  and  that 
she  enjoyed  its  innumerable  small  fruits  in  the  shape  of 
offerings.  But  she  kept  me  most  accurately  balanced 
at  the  precise  distance  she  found  most  agreeable.  My 
letters — the  columns  and  columns  I  must  have  written  ! 
— were  most  fervid  ;  and  a  good  deal  more  eloquent,  I 
fancy,  than  my  oral  courtship.  But  yet  I  have  her  own 
testimony  for  it  that  Mabel  approved  my  declamatory 
style  of  love-making  ;  the  style  used  when  actually  in  the 
presence. 

The  end  was  in  this  wise  :  I  called,  ostensibly  to  sec 
Mrs.  Foster,  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  when  I  knew,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  that  my  chief  and  his  wife  were  attend- 
ing a  function  in  Sydney.  It  was  a  winter's  day,  very 
blusterous  and  wet.  The  servant  having  told  me  her 
mistress  was  out,  and  Miss  Mabel  in,  was  about  to  lead 
me  through  the  long,  wide  hall  to  the  drawing-room, 
which  opened  through  a  conservatory  upon  a  rear  veran- 
dah, when  some  one  called  her,  and  I  assured  her  I  could 
find  my  own  way.  So  the  smiling  maid  (who  doubtless 
knew  my  secret)  left  me,  and  I  leisurely  disposed  of  coat 
and    umbrella,    and    walked    through    the    house.     The 


188   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

shadowy  drawing-room  was  empty,  but,  as  I  entered  it, 
these  words,  spoken  in  Mabel's  voice,  reached  me  from 
the  conservatory  beyond  : 

'  My  dear  Hester,  how  perfectly  absurd.  A  little  un- 
known reporter  boy,  picked  up  by  father,  probably  out  of 
charity !  And,  besides,  you  know  I  should  always  be 
true  to  Tommy,  however  long  he  is  away.  Why,  I  often 
mention  my  reporter  boy  to  Tommy  in  writing.  And  he 
is  delicious,  you  know ;  he  really  is.  I  believe  you  're 
jealous.  He  is  a  pretty  boy,  I  know.  But  you  'd  hardly 
credit  how  sweetly  he —  Well,  romances,  you  know. 
He  really  is  too  killingly  sweet  when  he  makes  love — 
Oh,  with  the  most  knightly  respect,  my  dear  !  Very 
likely  he  will  come  in  this  afternoon,  and  you  shall  hear 
for  yourself.  You  shall  sit  out  here,  and  I  '11  keep  him 
in  the  drawing-room.  Then  you  '11  see  how  well  in  hand 
he  is.' 

It  was  probably  contemptible  of  me  not  to  have  coughed, 
or  blown  my  nose,  or  something,  in  the  first  ten  seconds. 
But  the  whole  speech  did  not  occupy  very  many  seconds 
in  the  making,  and  was  half  finished  before  I  realised,  with 
a  stunning  shock,  what  it  meant.  It  went  on  after  the 
last  words  I  have  written  here,  but  at  that  point  I  retired, 
backward,  into  the  hall  to  collect  myself,  as  they  say. 
I  had  various  brilliant  ideas  in  the  few  seconds  given  to 
this  process.  I  saw  myself,  pitiless  but  full  of  dignity, 
inflicting  scathing  punishment  of  various  kinds,  and  piling 
blazing  coals  of  fire  upon  Mabel's  pretty  head.  I  thought, 
too,  of  merely  disappearing,  and  leaving  conscience  to 
make  martyrdom  of  my  fair  lady's  life.  But  perhaps  I 
doubted  the  inquisitorial  capacity  of  her  conscience.  At 
all  events,  in  the  end,  I  rattled  the  drawing-room  door- 
handle vigorously,  and  re-entered  with  a  portentous 
clearing  of  the  throat.  There  was  a  flutter  and  patter  in 
the  conservatory,  and  then  the  hitherto  adored  one  came 
in  to  me,  an  open  book  in  her  hand,  and  witchery  in  both 
her  liquid  eyes. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  1 89 

And  then  a  most  embarrassing  and  unexpected  thing 
happened.  My  wrath  fell  from  me,  carrying  with  it  all 
my  smarting  sense  of  humiliation,  and  every  vestige  of  the 
desire  to  humiliate  or  punish  Mabel.  I  was  left  horribly 
unprotected,  because  conscious  only  of  the  totally  un- 
expected fact  that  Mabel  was  still  adorable,  and  that 
now,  when  about  to  leave  her  for  ever,  I  wanted  her  more 
than  at  any  previous  time.  Then  help  came  to  me.  I 
heard  a  tiny  footfall,  light  as  a  leaf's  touch,  on  the  paved 
floor  of  the  conservatory.  I  pictured  the  listening  Hester 
Prinsep,  and  pride,  or  some  useful  substitute  therefor, 
came  to  my  aid. 

4  I  'm  afraid  I  've  interrupted  you,'  I  said,  making  a 
huge  effort  to  avoid  seeing  the  witchery  in  Mabel's  eyes. 
4  I  only  came  to  bring  this  book  for  Mrs.  Foster.  I  had 
promised  it.' 

'  But  why  so  solemn,  poor  knight  ?  What 's  wrong  ? 
Won't  you  sit  down  ?  '  said  Mabel  gaily. 

1  No,  I  mustn't  stay,'  I  replied,  with  Spartan  firmness. 
And  then,  on  a  sudden  impulse  :  4  Don't  you  think  we  've 
both  been  rather  mistaken,  Mabel  ?  I  've  been  silly  and 
presumptuous,  because,  of  course,  I  'm  nobody — just  a 
penniless  newspaper  reporter.  And  you — you  are  very 
dear  and  sweet,  and  will  soon  marry  some  one  who  can 
give  you  a  house  like  this,  in  Potts  Point.  I — I  've  all 
my  way  to  make  yet,  and — and  so  I  'd  like  to  say  good- 
bye. And — thank  you  ever  so  much  for  always  having 
been  so  sweet  and  so  patient.     Good-bye  !  ' 

1  Why  ?    Aren't  you—    Won't  you—  Good-bye  then  ! ' 

And  so  I  passed  out  ;  and,  having  quite  relinquished 
any  thought  of  reprisals,  I  believe  perhaps  I  did,  after 
all,  bring  a  momentary  twinge  of  remorse  to  pretty,  giddy 
Mabel  Foster.  I  never  saw  her  again  but  once,  and  that 
as  a  mere  acquaintance,  and  when  almost  a  year  had 
passed. 


190   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


XX 

I  have  no  idea  what  made  me  fix  upon  the  particular 
sum  of  two  hundred  pounds  as  the  amount  of  capital 
required  for  my  migration  oversea  to  England  ;  but  that 
was  the  figure  I  had  in  mind.  At  the  time  it  seemed  that 
the  decision  to  go  home — England  is  still  regularly  spoken 
of  as  '  home '  by  tens  of  thousands  of  British  subjects 
who  never  have  set  eyes  upon  its  shores,  and  are  not  ac- 
quainted with  any  living  soul  in  the  British  Isles — came 
to  me  after  that  eventful  afternoon  at  Potts  Point.  And 
as  a  definite  decision,  with  anything  like  a  date  in  view,, 
perhaps  it  did  not  come  till  then.  But  the  tendency  in 
that  direction  had  been  present  for  a  long  while. 

It  would  seem,  however,  that  at  every  period  of  my 
life  I  have  always  been  feeding  upon  some  one  pre- 
dominant plan,  desire,  or  objective.  For  many  months 
prior  to  that  afternoon  at  Potts  Point,  my  adoration  of 
Mabel  Foster  had  overshadowed  all  else,  and  made  me 
most  unusually  careless  of  other  interests.  This  pre- 
occupation having  come  to  an  abrupt  end  was  succeeded 
almost  immediately  by  the  fixed  determination  to  go  to 
England  as  soon  as  I  could  acquire  the  sum  of  two  hun- 
dred pounds.  Into  the  pursuit  then  of  this  sum  of  money 
I  now  plunged  with  considerable  vehemence. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  suppose  the  task  of  putting  to- 
gether a  couple  of  hundred  pounds,  in  London  say,  would 
be  a  pretty  considerable  one  for  a  youngster  without 
family  or  influence.  It  was  not  a  hard  one  for  me,  in 
Sydney.  I  might  probably  have  possessed  the  amount 
at  this  very  time,  but  for  my  single  period  of  extravagance 
— the  time  of  devotion  to  Miss  Foster.  Putting  aside  the 
vagaries  of  that  period,  I  saved  money  automatically. 
Mere  living  and  journeying  to  and  from  the  office  cost 
me  less  than  a  pound  each  week.  My  pleasures  cost  less 
than  half  that  amount  all  told  :    and  as  one  outcome  of 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  191 

my  year's  extravagance,  I  was  now  handsomely  provided 
for  in  the  matter  of  clothes. 

But  I  will  not  pretend  that  hoarding  for  the  great  ad- 
venture of  going  to  England  did  not  involve  some  small 
sacrifices.  It  did.  To  take  one  trifle  now.  I  had  formed 
a  habit  of  dropping  into  a  restaurant,  Quong  Tart's  by 
name,  for  a  cup  of  afternoon  tea  each  day ;  in  the  first 
place  because  I  had  heard  Mabel  Foster  speak  of  going 
there  for  the  same  purpose  with  her  friend  Hester  Prinsep. 
Abstention  from  this  dissipation  now  added  a  few  weekly 
shillings  to  the  great  adventure  fund.  To  the  same  end 
I  gave  up  cigarettes,  confining  myself  to  the  one  foul  old 
briar  pipe.  And  there  were  other  such  minor  abstinences, 
all  designed  to  increase  the  weight  of  the  envelope  I 
handed  across  the  bank  counter  each  week. 

The  disadvantages  of  the  habit  of  making  life  a  con- 
secutive series  of  absorbing  preoccupations  are  numerous. 
The  practice  narrows  the  sphere  of  one's  interests  and 
activities,  tends  to  introspective  egoism,  and  robs  the 
present  of  much  of  its  savour.  But,  now  and  again,  it 
has  its  compensations.  Save  for  a  single  week-end  of 
rather  pensive  moping,  the  end  of  my  love  affair  changed 
the  colour  of  my  outlook  but  very  little  indeed.  Its 
place  was  promptly  filled,  or  very  nearly  filled,  by  the 
other  preoccupation.  And,  keen  though  I  was  about 
this,  I  did  not  in  any  sense  become  an  ascetic  youth  held 
down  by  stern  resolves.  I  think  I  rather  enjoyed  the 
small  sacrifices  and  the  steady  saving  ;  and  I  know  I  very- 
much  enjoyed  applying  for  and  obtaining  another  small 
increase  of  salary,  after  completing  a  trumpery  series  of 
sketches  of  pleasure  resorts  near  Sydney,  the  publication 
of  which  brought  substantial  profit  to  the  Chronicle. 

One  thing  that  did  rather  hurt  me  at  this  time  was  a 
comment  made  upon  myself,  and  accidentally  overheard 
by  me  in  the  reporters'  room  at  the  office.  This  was  a 
remark  made  by  an  American  newspaper  man,  who, 
having  been  a  month  or  two  on  the  staff,  was  dismissed 


192   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

for  drunkenness.  He  spoke  in  a  penetrating  nasal  tone 
as  I  approached  the  open  door  of  the  room,  and  what  he 
said  to  his  unknown  companion  came  as  such  a  buffet  in 
the  face  to  me  that  I  turned  and  walked  away.  The 
words  I  heard  were  : 

'  Freydon  ?  Oh  yes ;  clever,  in  his  ten  cent  way. 
I  allow  the  chap  's  honest,  mind,  but,  sakes  alive,  he  's 
only  what  a  N'York  thief  would  call  a  "  sure  thing 
grafter."  ' 

The  phrase  was  perfectly  unfamiliar  to  me,  but  in- 
tuitively I  knew  exactly  what  it  meant,  and  I  suppose 
it  hurt  because  I  felt  its  applicability.  A  '  sure  thing 
grafter '  was  a  criminal  who  took  no  chances,  I  felt ;  an 
adventurer  who  played  for  petty  stakes  only,  because  he 
would  face  no  risks.  Even  the  American  pressman  knew 
I  was  no  criminal.  He  probably  would  have  despised  me 
less  if  he  thought  I  stole.  But  —  there  it  was.  The 
chance  shaft  went  home.     And  it  hurt. 

I  dare  say  there  was  considerable  pettiness  about  the 
way  in  which  I  saved  my  earnings  instead  of  squandering 
them  with  glad  youthfulness,  as  did  most  of  my  colleagues. 
There  was  something  of  the  huckster's  instinct,  no  doubt, 
in  many  of  the  trivial  journalistic  ideas  I  evolved,  took  to 
my  chief,  and  pleased  my  employers  by  carrying  out 
successfully.  I  suppose  these  were  the  petty  ways  by 
which  I  managed  somehow  to  clamber  out  of  the  position 
in  which  my  father's  death  had  left  me.  They  are  set 
down  here  because  they  certainly  were  a  part  of  my  life. 
I  am  not  ashamed  of  them,  but  I  do  wonder  at  them 
rather  as  a  part  of  my  life  ;  not  at  all  as  something  beneath 
me,  but  as  something  suggesting  the  possession  of  a  kind 
of  commercial  gift  for  '  getting  on,'  of  which  my  after  life 
gave  little  or  no  indication.  In  all  my  youth  there  was 
undoubtedly  a  marked  absence  of  the  care-free  jollity, 
the  irresponsible  joyousness,  which  is  supposed  to  belong 
naturally  to  youth.  This  was  not  due,  I  think,  to  the 
mere  fact  of  my  being  left  alone  in  the  world  as  a  child. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  193 

We  have  all  met  urchins  joyous  in  the  most  abject  desti- 
tution. I  attribute  it  to  two  causes  :  inherited  tem- 
peramental tendencies,  and  the  particular  circumstances 
in  which  I  happened  to  be  left  alone  in  the  world.  Had 
I  been  born  in  a  slum,  and  subsequently  left  an  orphan 
there  ;  or  had  my  father's  death  occurred  half  a  dozen 
years  earlier  than  it  did  ;  in  either  case  my  circumstances 
would,  I  apprehend,  have  influenced  me  far  less. 

As  things  were  with  me  when  I  found  myself  in  the 
ranks  of  the  friendless  and  penniless,  I  had  formed  certain 
definite  tastes  and  associations,  the  influence  of  which 
was  such  as  to  make  me  earnestly  anxious  to  get  away 
from  that  strata  of  the  community  which  my  companions 
at  St.  Peter's  Orphanage,  for  example,  accepted  un- 
questioningly  as  their  own.  Now  when  a  youngster  in 
his  early  teens  is  possessed  by  an  earnest  desire  of  that 
sort,  I  suppose  it  is  not  likely  to  stimulate  irresponsible 
gaiety  and  carelessness  in  him. 

But,  withal,  I  enjoyed  those  Sydney  years ;  yes,  I 
savoured  the  life  of  that  period  with  unfailing  /.est.  But, 
incidents  of  the  type  which  dear  old  Mrs.  Gabbitas  called 
'  Awful  warnings,'  were  for  me  more  real,  more  impressive, 
than  they  are  to  youths  who  live  in  comfortably  luxurious 
homes,  and  know  the  care  of  mother  and  sisters.  The 
normal  youth  is  naturally  not  often  moved  to  the  vein  of 

— 4  There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God,  goes etc.'     But 

I  was,  inevitably. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  American  journalist  who 
so  heartily  despised  my  bourgeois  prudence  and  progress. 
As  I  walked  through  the  Domain  one  evening,  not  many 
months  after  I  had  heard  myself  compared  with  a  '  sure 
thing  grafter,1  I  saw  a  piece  of  human  wreckage  curled 
up  under  a  tree  in  tin-  moonlight.  It  was  not  a  very 
infrequent  sight  of  course,  even  in  prosperous  Sydney. 
This  particular  wreck,  as  he  lay  sleeping  there,  exposed 
the  fact  that  he  wore  neither  shirt  nor  socks.  He  was 
dreadfully  filthy,  and  his  stertorous  breathing  gave  a  clue 

x 


194   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

to  the  cause  of  his  degradation.  As  I  drew  level  with 
him,  the  moon  shone  full  on  his  stubble-grown  face.  He 
was  the  American  reporter. 

Here  was  a  chance  to  return  good  for  evil.  I  might 
have  done  several  quite  picturesque  things,  and  did  think 
of  leaving  a  coin  beside  the  poor  wretch.  Then  I  pictured 
its  inevitable  destination,  and  impatiently  asked  myself 
why  sentimentality  should  carry  money  of  mine  into 
public-house  tills.  So  I  passed  on.  Finally,  after  walk- 
ing a  hundred  yards,  I  retraced  my  steps  and  slid  half  a 
crown  under  the  man's  grimy  hand,  where  it  lay  limply 
on  the  grass. 

XXI 

The  work  that  gave  me  most  satisfaction  at  this  time 
was  writing  of  a  kind  which  I  could  not  induce  my  chief 
to  favour  for  his  own  purposes.  He  said  it  was  not 
sufficiently  '  legitimate  journalism '  for  the  Chronicle. 
(The  'eighties  were  still  young.)  And  only  at  long  in- 
tervals was  I  able  to  persuade  him  to  accept  one  or  two 
examples,  though  I  insisted  it  was  the  best  work  I  had 
ever  attempted  for  the  paper ;  as,  indeed,  it  very  likely 
was. 

'  But  this  is  practically  a  story,'  or  '  This  is  really 
fiction,'  or  '  This  is  a  sketch  of  a  personal  character,  not 
a  newspaper  feature,'  he  would  say.  And  then,  one  day, 
in  handing  me  back  one  of  my  rejected  offspring,  he  said  : 
*  Look  here,  Freydon,  see  if  you  can  condense  this  a  shade, 
and  then  send  it  to  the  editor  of  the  Observer.  I  've 
written  him  saying  I  should  tell  you  this.' 

I  followed  this  kindly  advice,  and,  a  month  later,  en- 
joyed the  profound  satisfaction  of  reading  my  little 
contribution  in  the  famous  Australian  weekly  journal. 
The  fact  would  have  no  interest  for  any  one  else,  of  course, 
but  I  have  always  remembered  this  little  sketch  of  a  type 
of  Australian  bushman,  because  it  was  the  first  signed 
contribution  from  my  pen  to  appear  in  any  journal  of 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  195 

standing ;  the  first  of  a  series  which  appeared  perhaps 
once  in  a  month  during  the  rest  of  my  time  in  Sydney. 

People  I  met  in  Mr.  Rawlcncc's  studio  occasionally 
mentioned  these  sketches,  and  I  took  great  pleasure  in 
them.  Incidentally,  they  added  to  my  hoard  at  the 
bank.  Mr.  Smith,  my  room-mate  at  North  Shore,  had 
hitherto  regarded  my  newspaper  work  strictly  from  a 
business  standpoint ;  judging  it  solely  by  the  salary  it 
brought.  Suddenly  now  I  found  I  had  touched  an  un- 
suspected vein  of  his  character.  He  was  surprisingly 
pleased  about  these  signed  Observer  sketches.  This  was 
authorship,  he  said  ;  and  he  spoke  to  every  one,  with 
most  kindly  pride,  of  his  young  friend's  work. 

My  account  at  the  savings  bank  touched  the  desired 
two  hundred  pounds  mark,  when  I  had  been  just  three 
years  and  nine  months  in  Sydney.  I  decided  to  add  to  it 
until  I  had  completed  my  fourth  year ;  and,  meantime, 
made  inquiries  about  the  passage  to  England.  From 
this  point  on  I  made  no  secret  of  my  intentions,  and  a 
very  kindly  reply  came  from  Mrs.  Perkins  in  Dursley  to 
the  letter  in  which  I  told  her  of  my  plan.  At  a  venture 
I  addressed  a  letter  to  Ted,  my  old  friend  of  Livorno 
days  ;  but  it  brought  no  answer.  Neither  had  the  letter 
of  nearly  four  years  earlier,  in  which  his  loan  of  one  pound 
had  been  returned  with  warm  thanks. 

The  months  slipped  by,  and  the  fourth  anniversary  of 
my  start  in  Sydney  arrived  ;  and  still  I  postponed  from 
day  to  day  the  final  step  of  resigning  my  appointment, 
and  booking  my  passage.  I  cannot  explain  this  at  all, 
for  I  had  become  more  and  more  eager  for  the  adventure 
with  every  passing  month.  I  do  not  think  timidity  re- 
strained me.  No,  I  fancy  a  kind  of  epicurean  pleasure  in 
the  hourly  consciousness  that  I  was  able  now  to  take  the 
step  so  soon  as  I  chose  induced  me  to  prolong  the 
savouring  of  it ;  just  as  I  have  sometimes  found 
myself  deliberately  refraining  for  hours,  and  even  for 
a  day  or  so,   from  opening  a  parcel  of  books   which   I 


196   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

have  desired  and  looked  forward  to  enjoying  for  some 
time  previously. 

The  awakening  from  this  sort  of  epicurean  dalliance 
was,  as  the  event  proved,  somewhat  sharp  and  abrupt. 

I  did  presently  resign  my  post  and  engage  my  second- 
class  berth  in  the  mail  steamer  Orion.  Upon  this  reser- 
vation I  paid  a  deposit  of  twenty  pounds  ;  and  it  seemed 
that  when  my  passage  had  been  fully  paid,  and  one  or 
two  other  necessary  expenses  met,  I  might  still  have  my 
two  hundred  pounds  intact  to  carry  with  me  to  England. 

Thus  I  felt  that  I  was  handsomely  provided  for  ;  and, 
upon  the  whole,  I  think  the  average  person  who  has 
reached  middle  life,  at  all  events,  would  find  it  easy  to 
regard  with  understanding  tolerance  the  fact  that  I  was 
rather  proud  of  what  I  had  accomplished.  It  really  was 
something,  all  the  attendant  circumstances  being  taken 
into  account.  But,  perhaps,  it  is  not  always  safe  to  trust 
too  implicitly  in  the  genial  old  faith  that  Providence  helps 
those  who  help  themselves  ;  though  the  complementary 
theory,  that  Providence  does  not  help  those  who  do  not 
help  themselves,  may  be  pretty  generally  correct.  May- 
be I  was  too  complaisant.  (If  I  have  a  superstition 
to-day,  it  is  that  a  jealous  Nemesis  keeps  vengeful  watch 
upon  human  complaisance.) 

On  a  certain  Thursday  morning,  and  in  a  mood  of  some 
elation,  I  walked  into  the  bank  to  close  my  account.  The 
amount  was  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds  ten 
shillings.  Of  this  some  twenty-five  pounds  was  destined 
to  complete  the  payment  that  morning  of  my  passage 
money.  The  cashier  was  able  to  furnish  me  with  Bank 
of  England  notes  for  two  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
balance,  for  convenience  and  ready-money,  I  drew  in 
Australian  notes  and  gold.  Never  before  having  handled 
at  one  time  a  greater  sum  than,  say,  five-and-twenty 
pounds,  it  was  with  a  sense  of  being  a  good  deal  of  a 
capitalist  that  I  buttoned  my  coat  as  I  emerged  from  the 
bank,  and  set  out  for  the  shipping-office.     The  sun  shone 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  1 97 

warmly.  My  arrangements  were  all  completed.  I  was 
going  home.  Yes,  it  was  with  something  of  an  air,  no 
doubt,  that  I  took  the  pavement,  humming  as  I  passed 
along  the  bright  side  of  Pitt  Street. 

All  my  life  I  have  had  a  fondness  for  byways.  Main 
thoroughfares  between  the  two  great  arteries,  Pitt  and 
George  Street,  were  at  my  service  ;  but  I  preferred  a 
narrow  alley  which  brings  one  to  the  back  premises  of 
Messrs.  Hunt  and  Carton's,  the  wholesale  stationers. 
Bearing  to  the  left  through  that  firm's  stableyard,  one 
passes  through  a  little  arched  opening  which  debouches 
upon  Tinckton  Street,  whence  in  twenty  paces  one  reaches 
George  Street  at  a  point  close  to  the  office  for  which  I 
was  bound. 

I  can  see  now  the  sleek-sided  lorry  horses  in  Hunt  and 
Carton's  yard,  and  I  recall  precisely  the  odour  of  the 
place  as  I  passed  through  it  that  morning;  the  heavy, 
flat  wads  of  blue-wrapped  paper,  and  the  fluttering  bits 
of  straw  ;  the  stamp  of  a  draught  horse's  foot  on  cobble- 
stones. I  saw  the  black,  clean-cut  shadow  of  the  arched 
place.  I  turned  half  round  to  note  the  cause  of  a  soft 
sound  behind  me.  And  just  then  came  the  dull  roar  of  a 
detonation,  in  the  same  instant  that  a  huge  weight 
crashed  upon  me,  and  I  fell  down,  down,  down  into  the 
very  bowels  of  the  earth.  .  .  . 

1  No  actual  danger,  I  think.     Excuse  me,  nurse  !  ' 

Those  were  the  first  words  I  heard.  The  first  I  spoke, 
I  l>elieve,  were  : 

4  I  suppose  the  arch  collapsed  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  To  be  sure,  yes.  There  was  quite  a  collapse, 
wasn't  there  ? '  said  some  one  blandly.  '  However,  you  're 
all  right  now.  Just  open  your  mouth  a  little,  please.  That's 
right.  Better  ?  Ah  1  I  I'm  !  Yes,  there  's  bound  to  be 
pain  in  the  head  ;   but  we  '11  soon  have  that  a  bit  easier.' 

After  that,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  began  to  take  some 
kind  of  warm  drink,  and  to  talk  almost  at  once.     As  a 


198   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

fact,  I  believe  there  was  another  somnolent  interval  of 
an  hour  or  so  before  I  did  actually  reach  this  stage  of 
taking  refreshment  and  asking  questions.  It  was  then 
late  evening,  and  I  was  in  bed  in  the  Sydney  Hospital. 
There  had  been  no  earthquake,  nor  yet  even  the  collapse 
of  an  archway.  Nothing  at  all,  in  fact,  except  that  I  had 
been  smitten  over  the  head  with  an  iron  bar.  There  had 
been  two  blows,  I  believe  ;  and,  if  so,  the  second  must 
really  have  been  a  work  of  supererogation,  for  I  was 
conscious  only  of  the  one  crash. 

In  one  illuminating  instant  I  recalled  my  visit  to  the 
bank,  my  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds  ten  shill- 
ings, my  intended  visit  to  the  shipping-office,  the  approach- 
ing end  and  climax  of  my  work  in  Sydney  and  Dursley — 
six  years  of  it. 

'  Nurse,'  I  said,  with  sudden,  low  urgency,  '  will  you 
please  see  if  my  pocket-book  is  in  my  coat  ?  ' 

'  Everything  is  taken  out  of  patients'  pockets  and 
locked  up  for  safety,'  she  said. 

'  Well,  will  you  please  inquire  what  amount  of  money 
was  taken  from  my  pockets,  nurse.  It 's — it 's  rather 
important,'  I  told  her. 

The  nurse  urged  the  importance  of  my  not  thinking  of 
business  just  now  ;  but  after  a  few  more  words  she  went 
out,  gave  some  one  a  message,  and,  returning,  said  my 
matter  would  be  seen  to  at  once. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  a  very  long  time  passed.  My 
head  was  full  of  a  tremendous  ache.  But  my  thoughts 
were  active,  and  full  of  gloomy  foreboding.  Just  as  I 
was  about  to  make  another  appeal  to  the  nurse,  the 
doctor  came  bustling  down  the  ward  with  another  man, 
a  plain  clothes  policeman,  I  thought,  with  recollection 
of  sundry  newspaper  reporting  experiences.  The  surmise 
was  correct.  The  doctor  had  a  look  at  my  head — his 
fingers  were  furnished  apparently  with  red-hot  steel 
prongs — and  held  my  right  wrist  between  his  fingers. 
The  police  officer  sat  down  heavily  beside  the  bed,  drew 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  199 

out  a  shiny-covered  note-book,  and  began,  in  an  astound- 
ingly  deep  voice,  to  ask  me  laboriously  futile  questions. 

4  Look  here  !  '  I  said,  after  a  few  minutes,  '  this  is 
all  very  well,  but  would  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me 
what  money  was  found  in  my  pockets  ?  ' 

4  Two  sovereigns,  one  half  sovereign,  seven  shillings  in 
silver,  and  tuppence  in  bronze,'  said  the  sepulchral 
policeman,  as  though  he  thought  4  tuppence  '  was  usually 
4  in  '  marble,  or  lignum  vilce,  or  something  of  the  sort. 
4  Also  one  silver  watch  with  leather  guard,  one  plated 
cigarette-case,  and ' 

4  No  pocket-book  ?  '  I  interrupted  despondently.  The 
policeman  brightened  at  that. 

4  So  there  was  a  pocket-book  ?  I  thought  so,'  the 
brilliant  creature  said.  And  after  that  I  lost  all  interest 
in  these  bedside  proceedings.  I  referred  the  man  to  the 
Chronicle  office,  the  bank,  and  the  shipping-office,  and 
requested  as  a  special  favour  that  Mr.  Smith  should  be 
sent  for  ;  also,  on  a  journalistic  afterthought,  a  reporter 
from  the  Chronicle.  The  numbers  of  the  bank-notes  had 
been  written  down.  Oh  yes,  on  the  advice  of  the  bank 
clerk,  I  had  done  this  carefully  at  the  bank  counter, 
and  preserved  the  record  scrupulously — in  the  missing 
pocket-book. 

The  police — marvellous  men — ascertained  next  morn- 
ing that  the  notes  had  been  cashed  at  the  Bank  of  New 
South  Wales,  in  George  Street,  within  half  an  hour  of  the 
time  at  which  I  obtained  them  from  the  savings  bank. 
And  that  was  the  last  I  ever  heard  of  them. 

Twenty-four  hours  later  I  was  called  upon  to  identify 
an  arrested  suspect  who  had  been  seen  in  the  vestibule  of 
the  bank  at  the  time  of  my  call.  I  did  identify  the  poor 
wretch.  He  was  the  American  reporter  who  had  been 
discharged  from  the  Chronicle  staff.  But  nobody  at  the 
Bank  of  New  South  Wales  remembered  ever  having  seen 
the  man,  and  I  said  at  once  that  I  could  not  possibly 
identify    my    assailant,    not   even    having   known    that 


200   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

any  one  had  attacked  me  until  I  was  told  of  it  in 
hospital. 

The  police  appeared  to  regard  me  as  a  most  unsatis- 
factory kind  of  person,  as  I  doubtless  was  from  their 
point  of  view.  But  they  had  to  release  the  American, 
although,  when  arrested,  he  had  two  shining  new 
sovereigns  in  his  ragged  pockets,  and  was  full  of  assorted 
alcoholic  liquors.  Their  theory  was  that  in  some  way  or 
another  the  American  had  known  of  my  movements  and 
plans,  and  communicated  these  to  a  professional  '  strong 
arm  '  thief  ;  that  I  had  been  shadowed  to  and  from  the 
bank,  and  that  I  might  possibly  have  escaped  attack 
altogether  but  for  my  addiction  to  byways. 

Their  theory  did  not  greatly  interest  me.  For  the 
time  the  central  fact  was  all  my  mind  seemed  able  to 
accommodate.  My  savings  were  gone,  my  passage  to 
England  forfeited,  my  bank  account  closed,  and — so  my 
hot  eyes  saw  it — my  career  at  an  end. 

XXII 

From  the  medical  standpoint  there  were  no  complica- 
tions whatever  in  my  case  ;  it  was  just  as  simple  as  a 
cut  finger.  Regarded  from  this  point  of  view,  a  broken 
head  is  a  small  matter  indeed,  in  a  youth  of  abstemious 
habits  and  healthy  life.  Well,  he  was  a  very  thoroughly 
chastened  youth  who  accepted  the  cheery  physician's 
congratulations  upon  his  early  discharge  from  hospital. 

'  Nuisance  about  the  money,'  admitted  the  doctor 
genially,  as  he  twiddled  his  massive  gold  watch-chain. 
*  But  it  might  have  been  a  deal  worse,  you  know ;  a 
very  great  deal  worse.  After  all,  health  's  the  thing, 
the  only  thing  that  really  matters.' 

The  remark  strikes  me  now  as  reasonable  enough. 
At  the  time  I  thought  it  pretty  vapid  twaddle.  Four 
quiet  days  I  spent  at  my  North  Shore  lodging,  and  then 
(by  Mr.  Foster's  freely  and  most  kindly  given  permission) 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  201 

back  to  the  Chronicle  office  again,  just  as  before,  save  for 
one  detail — I  no  longer  had  a  banking  account.  But 
was  it  really,  '  just  as  before,'  in  any  single  sense  ?  No, 
I  think  not ;  I  think  not. 

Often  in  the  years  that  have  passed  since  that  morning 
chat  with  the  cheerful  physician  in  Sydney  Hospital,  I 
have  heard  folk  speak  lightly  of  money  losses — other 
people's  losses,  as  a  rule — and  talk  of  the  comparative 
unimportance  of  these  as  against  various  other  kinds  of 
loss.  Never,  I  think,  at  all  events,  since  those  Sydney 
days  of  mine,  could  any  one  justly  charge  me  with  over- 
estimating the  importance  of  money.  And  yet,  even  now, 
and  despite  the  theories  of  the  philosophers,  I  incline  to 
the  opinion  that  few  more  desolating  and  heart-breaking 
disasters  can  befall  men  and  women  than  the  loss  of  their 
savings.  I  would  not  instance  such  a  case  as  mine. 
But  I  have  known  cases  of  both  men  and  women  who, 
in  the  later  years,  have  lost  the  thrifty  savings  of  a 
working  life,  savings  accumulated  very  deliberately — 
and  at  what  a  cost  of  patient,  long-sustained  self-denial  ! — 
for  a  specific  purpose  :  the  purchase  of  their  freedom  in 
the  closing  years  ;  their  manumission  from  wage-earning 
toil.  And  I  say  that,  in  a  world  constituted  as  our  world 
is,  life  knows  few  tragedies  more  starkly  fell. 

As  for  my  little  loss  I  now  think  it  likely  that  in  certain 
ways  I  derived  benefits  from  it ;  and,  too,  in  other  ways, 
permanent  hurt.  I  was  still  standing  in  the  doorway  of 
my  manhood  ;  all  my  life  and  energy  as  a  man  before  me. 
But  it  did  not  seem  so  at  the  time.  At  the  time  I  thought 
of  this  handful  of  money  as  being  the  sole  outcome  and 
reward  for  six  years  of  pretty  strenuous  working  effort. 
(What  a  lot  I  overlooked  !)  I  was  far  from  telling  myself 
that  a  lad  of  onc-and-twenty  had  his  career  still  to  begin. 
On  the  contrary,  it  seemed  my  career  had  had  for  its 
culminating  point  the  great  adventure  of  going  to 
England,  to  attain  which  long  years  of  toilsome  work 
had  been  necessary.     These  years  had  passed,  the  work 


202   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

was  done,  the  culmination  at  hand  ;  and  now  it  was 
undone,  the  career  was  broken,  all  was  lost.  Oh,  it  was 
a  dourly  tragical  young  man  who  shared  Mr.  Smith's 
bedroom  during  the  next  few  months. 

One  odd  apparent  outcome  of  my  catastrophe  in  a  tea- 
cup has  often  struck  me  since.  No  doubt,  if  the  truth 
were  known  quite  other  causes  had  been  at  work  ;  but  it 
is  a  curious  fact  that  never,  at  any  period  of  my  life 
since  the  morning  on  which  I  so  gaily  closed  that  savings 
bank  account,  have  I  ever  taken  the  smallest  zest, 
interest,  or  pleasure  in  the  saving  of  money.  This  seems 
to  me  rather  odd  and  noteworthy.  It  is,  I  believe, 
strictly  true. 

For  a  few  weeks  after  resuming  my  working  routine 
I  plodded  along  in  a  rather  dazed  fashion,  and  without 
any  definite  purpose.  And  then,  during  a  wakeful  hour 
in  bed  (while  Mr.  Smith  snored  quite  gently  and  inoffen- 
sively on  the  far  side  of  our  little  room),  I  came  to  a  de- 
finite decision.  The  brutal  episode  of  the  crowbar — the 
weapon  which  had  felled  me  was  found  beside  me,  by  the 
way  ;  a  heavy  bar  used  for  opening  packing-cases,  which 
the  thief  had  evidently  picked  up  as  he  came  after  me 
through  Hunt  and  Carton's  yard — should  not  be  allowed 
to  divert  me  from  my  course.  Diversion  at  this  stage 
was  what  I  could  not  and  would  not  tolerate.  I  would 
go  to  England  just  the  same,  and  soon.  I  would  put  by 
a  few  pounds,  and  then  work  my  passage  home.  I  was 
perfectly  clear  about  it,  and  fell  asleep  now,  quite  content. 

On  the  next  day  I  began  making  inquiries.  At  first 
I  thought  I  could  manage  it  as  a  journalist,  by  writing 
eloquent  descriptions  of  the  passage.  A  little  talk  at  the 
shipping-office  served  to  disabuse  my  mind  of  this  notion. 
Then  I  would  go  as  a  deck-hand.  I  was  gently  apprised 
of  the  fact  that  my  services  as  a  deck-hand  might  not 
greatly  commend  themselves  to  the  average  ship-master. 
My  decision  was  not  in  the  least  affected  by  the  little 
things  I  learned. 


YOUTH— AUSTRALIA  203 

Finally,  I  secured  a  personal  introduction  to  the 
manager  of  the  shipping-office  in  which  my  twenty 
pounds  deposit  was  still  held,  and  induced  this  gentleman 
to  promise  that  he  would,  sooner  or  later,  secure  for  me 
a  chance  to  work  my  passage  home.  He  would  advise 
me,  he  said,  when  the  chance  arrived. 

With  this  I  was  satisfied,  and  returned  in  a  compara- 
tively cheerful  mood  to  my  plodding.  I  have  a  shrewd 
suspicion  that  my  chief,  Mr.  Foster,  used  his  good  offices 
on  my  behalf  with  the  shipping  company's  manager. 

Three  months  went  slowly  by.  And  then  one  morning 
a  laconic  note  reached  me  from  the  shipping-office. 

'  Could  you  do  a  bit  of  clerking  in  a  purser's  office  ? 
If  so,  please  see  me  to-day.' 

It  appeared  that  the  assistant  purser  of  one  of  the  mail- 
boats  had  died  while  on  the  passage  between  Melbourne 
and  Sydney.  The  company  preferred  to  fill  such  vacancies 
in  England,  and  so  a  temporary  clerical  assistant  for  the 
purser  would  be  shipped.  Would  I  care  to  undertake  it 
for  a  five-pound  note  and  my  passage  ? 

Forty-eight  hours  later  I  had  said  good-bye  to  Sydney 
friends,  and  was  installed  at  a  desk  in  the  purser's  office 
on  board  the  Orimba.  I  had  twenty-two  pounds  and 
ten  shillings  in  my  trunk,  and  the  promise  of  a  five-pound 
note  when  the  steamer  should  reach  London.  It  was  a 
kind  of  outsctting  upon  my  great  adventure  quite  different 
from  that  which  I  had  planned.  But  it  was  an  outsctting, 
and  a  better  one  than  I  had  expected,  for  I  had  been 
prepared  to  work  my  passage  as  a  deck-hand  or  steward. 

And  so  it  fell  out  that  when  I  did  actually  leave 
Australia  I  was  too  busy  at  my  clerking,  and  at  inventing 
soporific  answers  to  the  mostly  irrelevant  inquiries  of 
more  or  less  distracted  passengers,  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  land  disappearing  below  the  horizon — the  land 
in  which  I  had  spent  the  most  formative  years  of  my 
life — or  to  spare  a  thought  for  any  such  matter  as  sea- 
sickness. 


204   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD 


Of  late  years  the  printers  have  given  us  reams  and  reams 
of  first  impressions  of  such  world  centres  as  London  and 
New  York.  Not  to  mention  the  army  of  unknown  globe- 
trotters and  writers,  celebrities  of  every  sort  and  kind 
have  recorded  their  impressions.  I  always  smile  when  my 
eyes  fall  upon  such  writings  ;  and,  generally,  I  recall, 
momentarily  at  all  events,  some  aspect  of  my  own  arrival 
in  England  as  purser's  clerk  on  board  the  Orimba. 

When  I  read,  for  example,  the  celebrity's  first  impres- 
sions of  New  York — a  confused  blend  of  bouquets, 
automobiles,  newspaper  interviewers,  incredibly  high 
buildings,  sumptuous  luncheons,  barbaric  lavishness, 
bad  road  surfaces,  frenetic  hospitality,  wild  expenditure  of 
paper  money — I  think  it  would  be  more  interesting 
perhaps,  certainly  more  instructive,  to  have  the  first 
impressions  of  the  immigrant,  who  lands  with  five  pounds, 
and  it  may  be  a  wife  and  a  child  or  two.  Then  there  is 
the  immigrant  from  the  same  end  of  the  ship  who  is  not 
allowed  to  land,  who  is  rejected  by  the  guardians  of  this 
Paradise  on  earth,  because  he  has  an  insufficient  number 
of  shillings,  or  a  weakness  in  his  lungs.  The  bouquets, 
automobiles,  sumptuous  luncheons,  and  things  do  not, 
one  may  apprehend,  figure  largely  in  the  first  impressions 
of  these  last  uncelebrated  people,  though  their  impressions 
may  embrace  quite  as  much  of  the  reality  concerned 
as  do  those  of  the  famous  ;  and,  it  may  be,  a  good  deal 
more. 

Broadly  speaking,  and  as  far  as  outlines  go,  I  was  in 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    205 

the  position  of  one  who  sees  England  for  the  first  time. 
There  were,  I  know,  subtle  differences ;  yet,  broadly 
speaking,  that  was  my  position.  The  native-born 
Australian,  approaching  the  land  of  his  fathers  for  the 
first  time,  comes  to  it  with  a  mass  of  cherished  lore  and 
associations  at  least  equal  in  weight  and  effect  to  my 
childhood's  knowledge  and  experience  of  England.  He 
very  often  comes  also  to  relatives.  I  came,  not  only 
having  no  claim  upon  any  single  creature  in  these  islands, 
but  having  no  faintest  knowledge  of  any  one  among  them. 
I  carried  two  letters  of  introduction  :  one  from  Mr. 
Foster  to  a  London  newspaper  editor  whom  he  knew 
only  by  correspondence,  and  the  other  from  Mr.  Rawlence 
to  a  painter,  who  just  then  (though  I  knew  it  not)  was  in 
Algiers. 

The  purser  paid  me  my  five  pounds  before  I  left  the 
ship,  wished  me  luck,  and  vowed,  as  his  habit  was  in  say- 
ing good-bye  to  people,  that  he  was  very  glad  he  had 
met  me.  And  then  I  got  into  the  train  with  my 
luggage,  and  set  out  for  Fenchurch  Street  and  the  con- 
quest of  London. 

The  passengers  had  all  disappeared  long  since.  Eng- 
land swallows  up  shiploads  of  them  almost  every  hour 
without  winking.  My  arrival  differed  in  various  ways 
from  theirs.  For  instance,  I  had  had  no  leisure  in 
which  to  think  about  it,  to  anticipate  it,  until  I  was 
actually  seated  in  the  train,  bound  for  Fenchurch  Street. 
They  had  been  arriving,  in  a  sense,  ever  since  we  left 
the  Mediterranean  ;  after  a  passage,  by  the  way,  resemb- 
ling in  every  particular  all  other  passages  from  Australia 
t'>  England  in  mail  steamers. 

To  be  precise.  I  think  the  first  impression  received  by 
me  was  that  the  England  I  had  come  to  was  a  quite 
astonishingly  dingy  land.  The  people  seemed  to  me  to 
have  a  dingy  pallor,  like  the  table-linen  of  the  cheaper 
sort  of  lodging-house.  They  looked,  not  so  much  ill 
as  unwashed,  not  so  much  poor  as  cross,  hipped,  tired, 


206   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

worried,  and  annoyed  about  something.  They  wore 
their  hats  at  an  angle  then  unfamiliar  to  me,  with  a 
forward  rake.  They  must  laugh  or,  at  any  rate,  smile 
sometimes,  I  thought.  This  is  where  Punch  comes  from. 
It  is  the  land  of  Dickens.  It  is,  in  short,  Merry  England. 
But,  as  I  regarded  the  dingy,  set  faces  from  the  railway's 
carriage  window,  it  seemed  inconceivable  that  their 
owners  ever  could  have  laughed,  or  screwed  up  the  skin 
around  their  eyes  to  look  out  happily  under  sunny  blue 
sides  upon  bright  and  cheery  scenes. 

Since  then  I  have  again  and  again  encountered  the 
most  indomitable  cheerfulness  in  Londoners,  in  circum- 
stances which  would  drive  any  Australian  to  tears,  or 
blasphemy,  or  suicide,  or  to  all  three.  And  I  know  now 
that  many  Londoners  wash  as  frequently  as  Australians, 
or  nearly  so.  But  my  first  impression  of  the  appearance 
of  those  I  saw  was  an  impression  of  sour,  cross,  unwashed 
sadness.  And,  being  an  impressionable  person,  I  imme- 
diately found  an  explanatory  theory.  The  essential 
difference  between  these  folk  and  people  following 
similarly  humble  avocations  in  Sydney,  I  thought,  is 
that  these  people,  even  those  of  them  who,  personally, 
were  never  acquainted  with  hunger,  live  in  the  shadow 
of  actual  want ;  even  of  actual  starvation.  In  Sydney 
they  do  not.  That  accounts  for  the  don't-care-a-damn 
light-heartedness  seen  in  Australian  faces,  and  for  the 
dominance  of  care  in  these  faces. 

I  still  had  everything  to  learn,  and  have  since  learned 
some  of  it.  And  I  do  not  think  now  that  my  theory 
was  particularly  incorrect.  The  mere  physical  fact  that 
the  working  men  in  Sydney  take  a  bath  every  day  as 
a  matter  of  course,  and  that  in  London  they  do  not  all 
take  one  every  week,  trifling  as  it  may  seem,  is  itself 
accountable  for  something.  But  the  ever-present  know- 
ledge that  starvation  is  a  real  factor  in  life,  not  in  Asia, 
but  in  the  house  next  door  but  one,  if  not  in  one's  own 
house — that  is  a  great  moulder  of  facial  expression.     It 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    207 

plays  no  part  whatever  in  the  life  of  the  country  from 
which  I  had  come. 

As  my  train  drew  to  within  half  a  dozen  miles  of  its 
destination,  I  became  vaguely  conscious  of  the  real  inner 
London  as  distinguished  from  its  extraordinary  dock- 
land and  water  approaches.  We  passed  a  huge  and  grimy 
dwelling-house,  overlooking  the  railway,  a  '  model  ' 
dwelling-house  ;  and  in  passing  I  caught  sight  of  an 
incredible  legend,  graven  in  stone  on  the  side  of  this 
building,  intimating  that  here  were  the  homes  of  more 
than  one  thousand  families.  That  rather  took  my 
breath  away. 

Then  we  dived  into  a  tunnel,  and  emerged  a  few 
seconds  later,  screeching  hoarsely,  right  in  London.  It 
hit  me  below  the  belt.  I  experienced  what  they  call  a 
1  sinking  '  feeling  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach.  I  thought 
what  a  fool  I  was,  how  puny  and  insignificant ;  and, 
again,  what  a  fool  I  must  be,  to  come  blundering  along 
here  into  the  maw  of  this  vast  beast,  this  London — I 
and  my  miserable  five-and-twenty  pounds  !  For  one  wild 
moment  the  panic-born  thought  of  hurrying  back  to  my 
purser  and  begging  re-engagement  for  the  outward  trip 
to  Australia  scuttled  across  my  mind.  And  then  the 
train  jolted  to  a  standstill,  and,  with  a  faint  kind  of 
nausea  in  my  throat,  I  stepped  out  into  London. 

I  have  to  admit  that  it  was  not  at  all  a  glorious  or 
inspiriting  home-coming.  It  was  as  different  from  the 
home-coming  of  my  dreams  (when  a  minor  capitalist) 
as  anything  well  could  be.  But  yet  this  was  indubitably 
London,  my  destination  ;  the  objective  of  all  my  efforts 
for  a  long  time  past.  A  uniformed  boot-black  gave  me 
a  sudden  thought  of  St.  Peter's  Orphanage — the  con- 
nection, if  any  existed,  must  have  been  rather  subtle — 
and  that  somehow  stiffened  my  spine  a  little.  Here  I 
was,  after  all,  the  utterly  friendless  Orphanage  lad  who, 
a  dozen  thousand  miles  away,  had  willed  that  he  should 
go  out  into  the  world,  do  certain  kinds  of  things,  meet 


208   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

certain  kinds  of  people,  and  journey  all  across  the  world 
to  his  native  England.  Well,  without  much  assistance, 
I  had  accomplished  these  things,  and  was  actually  there, 
in  London.  There  was  tingling  romance  in  the  thought 
of  it,  after  all.  No  drizzling  rain  could  alter  that.  Having 
successfully  adventured  so  far,  surely  I  was  not  to  be 
daunted  by  dingy  faces,  bricks,  and  mortar,  and  houses 
said  to  accommodate  a  thousand  families  ! 

And  so,  with  tolerably  authoritative  words  to  a  porter 
about  luggage,  I  squared  my  shoulders  in  response  to 
life's  undeniable  appeal  to  the  adventurous. 

II 

When  I  had  been  a  dozen  years  or  more  in  London, 
a  man  I  knew  bewailed  to  me  one  night  the  fact  that  he 
had  to  leave  Fenchurch  Street  Station  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  next  morning,  and  did  not  know  how  on  earth  he 
would  manage  it. 

'  Why  not  sleep  there  to-night  ?  '  I  suggested  care- 
lessly. 

'  Sleep  there  !  '  he  repeated  with  a  stare.  '  But  there 
are  no  hotels  in  that  part  of  the  world.' 

'  Oh,  bless  you,  yes  !  '  said  I.  '  You  try  the  Blue 
Boar.  You  will  find  it  almost  as  handy  as  sleeping  in 
the  booking-office,  without  nearly  so  strong  a  smell  of 
kippers  and  dirt.' 

I  do  not  think  my  friend  ventured  upon  the  Blue 
Boar ;  but  I  did,  a  dozen  years  earlier,  and  stayed  there 
for  two  nights.  I  wonder  if  any  other  new  arrival  from 
Australia  has  done  that !  Hardly,  I  think.  And  yet 
there  is  something  to  be  said  for  it.  It  was  quite  inex- 
pensive, as  London  hotels  go.  (They  are  all  much  more 
expensive  than  Australian  hotels,  though  the  cost  of 
living  in  England  is  appreciably  lower  than  it  is  in  the 
Antipodes.)  And  putting  up  there  obviates  the  embar- 
rassing necessity  of  taking  a  cab  from  the  station,  when 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    209 

you  cannot  think  of  a  place  to  which  you  can  tell  the 
man  to  drive. 

I  cherish  the  thought  that  I  have  become  something 
of  a  tradition  at  the  Blue  Boar,  where  I  have  reason 
to  think  I  am  probably  remembered  to-day  by  a  now 
aged  Boots  and  others — many,  many  others — as  '  The 
gcnclmun  as  orduder  bawth.' 

On  rising  after  my  first  insomnious  night  there,  I  went 
prowling  all  about  the  house  in  search  of  the  bathroom. 
Finally,  I  was  routed  back  to  my  room  by  a  newly- 
wakened  maid  (in  curl-pins),  who  told  me  rather  crossly 
that  I  could  not  have  a  '  bawth '  unless  I  ordered  it  ■  before- 
'and.'  She  did  not  say  how  long  beforehand.  But  I 
was  in  a  hurry  to  get  out  of  doors,  so  I  did  without 
my  bath,  and  promised  myself  I  would  sec  to  it  later  in 
the  day. 

That  afternoon,  footsore,  tired,  and  feeling  inexpress- 
ibly grimy,  I  interviewed  the  lady  again,  and  begged 
permission  to  have  a  bath.  She  was  then  in  a 
much  brighter  humour,  and  in  curls  in  place  of  pins. 
She  promised  to  arrange  the  matter  shortly,  and  send 
some  accredited  representative  to  warn  me  when  the 
psychological  moment  arrived.  Where  could  I  be 
found  ? 

1  Oh,  I  '11  go  and  undress  at  once,'  I  said. 

1  No,  don't  do  that,  sir ;  I  cawn't  get  a  bawth  all  in  a 
minute,'  she  told  me.  '  Perhaps  you  'd  like  to  wite  in 
the  smokin'-room.' 

Grateful  for  the  absence  of  the  morning's  crossness 
I  agreed  at  once,  and  retired  to  the  fly-blown  smoking- 
room,  where  there  was  ample  choice  of  distraction  for  a 
writing  man  between  a  moth-eaten  volume  called  King's 
Concordance  and  a  South-Eastern  Railway  time-table 
cover,  very  solidly  fashioned,  with  lots  of  crimson  and 
gold,  but  no  inside.  Here  I  smoked  half  a  pipe,  and 
would  have  rested,  but  that  I  felt  too  dirty.  Presently 
Boots  came  in,  elderly  and  sad  but  furtively  bird-like, 


210   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

both  in  the  way  he  held  his  head  on  one  side  and  in  the 
jerky  quickness  of  his  movements  : 

'  You  the  genelmun  as  orduder  bawth  ?  '  he  asked 
anxiously.     I  admitted  it,  and  he  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief . 

4  Oo  !  All  right,'  he  said,  almost  gladly.  '  I  '11  letcher 
know  when  it 's  ready.' 

And  he  hopped  out.  I  finished  my  pipe,  yawned, 
opened  the  Concordance,  and  shut  it  again  hastily,  by 
reason  of  the  extraordinarily  pungent  mustiness  its  pages 
emitted.  Then  I  went  prospecting  into  the  passage 
between  the  stairs  and  the  private  bar.  Here  I  passed  a 
sort  of  ticket-office  window,  at  which  a  middle-aged 
Hebrew  lady  sat,  eating  winkles  from  a  plate  with  the 
aid  of  a  hairpin.  Her  face  lit  up  with  sudden  interest 
as  she  saw  me  : 

'  Oo  !  '  she  cried  with  spirit,  '  er  you  the  genelmun 
has  orduder  bawth  ?  ' 

Again  I  pleaded  guilty,  and  with  a  broad,  reassuring 
smile,  as  of  one  who  should  say  :  '  Bless  you,  we  've  had 
visitors  just  as  mad  as  you  before  this,  and  never  attempted 
to  lasso  or  otherwise  constrain  them.  There  's  no  limit 
to  our  indulgence  toward  gentlemen  afflicted  as  you  are,' 
she  nodded  her  ringleted  head,  and  said  :  '  Right  you 
are,  sir.  I  '11  send  Boots  to  letcher  know  when  it 's 
ready.' 

Apart  from  consideration  of  her  occupation,  which 
seemed  to  me  to  demand  privacy,  I  could  not  stand 
gazing  at  this  lady,  though  I  was  momentarily  inclined 
to  ask  if  the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  Aldermen  had  been 
invited  to  attend  my  bathing ;  so  I  passed  on  to  the 
only  refuge  from  the  Concordance  room — the  private  bar. 
There  was  a  really  splendid  young  lady  in  attendance 
here,  who  smiled  upon  me  so  sweetly  that  I  felt  con- 
strained to  order  something  to  drink.  Also,  I  was 
greatly  athirst.  But  the  trouble  was  it  happened  I  had 
never  tasted  beer,  and  could  think  of  nothing  else  suitable 
that  was  likely  to  be  available.     While  I  pondered,  one 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    211 

hand  on  the  counter,  the  still  smiling  barmaid  opened 
conversation  brightly : 

4  Er  you  the  genelmun  what 's  orduder  bawth  ?  '  she 
asked  engagingly. 

I  began  to  feel  that  there  must  be  some  kind  of  a 
special  London  joke  about  this  formula.  Perhaps  it  is 
a  phrase  in  the  current  comic  opera,  I  thought.  A  pity 
that  ignorance  should  prevent  my  capping  it !  At  all 
events  I  was  saved  for  the  moment  from  choosing  a 
drink,  for  three  hilarious  city  gentlemen  entered  from  the 
street  just  then,  and  demanded  instant  attention.  As 
I  hung  indeterminately,  waiting,  I  heard  a  voice  in  the 
passage  outside,  and  recognised  it  as  belonging  to  that 
elderly  bird,  the  Boots. 

'  No,  I  ain't  awastin'  uv  me  time,'  it  said.  '  I  'm 
alookin'  fer  somebody.  I  serpose  you  ain't  seed  the 
genelmun  as  orduder  bawth  anywhere  abart,  'ave  yer  ?  ' 

Fearful  lest  further  delay  should  lead  to  the  bricking 
up  of  the  bathroom,  or  to  a  crier  being  sent  round  the 
town  for  '  the  genelmun,'  etc.,  I  hastened  out  almost 
into  the  arms  of  the  retainer,  and  forcibly  checked  him, 
as  he  began  on  an  interrogative  note  to  cheep  out  : 
*  You  the  genelmun  as  orduder ' 

Coming  from  a  country  where,  even  in  the  poorest 
workman's  house,  the  bathroom  at  all  events  is  always 
in  commission,  I  was  greatly  struck  by  this  incident ; 
more  especially  when,  an  hour  later,  I  heard  the  chamber- 
maid cry  out  over  the  banisters  : 

4  Mibcl !  The  genelmun  as  orduder  bawth  sez  'e  '11  'ave 
a  chop  wiv  'is  tea  !  ' 

III 

It  was  at  tlu-  beginning  of  the  second  day  at  the  Blue 
Boar  that  I  counted  over  my  money,  and  was  rather 
startled  to  discover  that  expenditure  in  pennies  can 
mount  up  quite  rapidly. 

In  those  days  pennies  were  comparatively  infrequent, 


212   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

almost  negligible,  in  Australia  ;  the  threepenny-bit  repre- 
senting for  most  purposes  the  lowest  price  asked  for 
anything.  (It  still  is  a  coin  more  generally  used  in 
Australia  than  anywhere  else,  I  think.)  Now,  during 
my  first  day  or  so  in  London  I  was  so  struck  by  the  number 
of  things  one  could  do  and  get  for  a  penny,  that  it  seemed 
I  was  really  spending  hardly  anything.  I  covered 
enormous  distances  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses,  and  talked 
a  great  deal  with  their  purple-faced  drivers,  most  of 
whom  wore  tall  hats,  and  carried  nosegays  in  their  coats. 
When  beggars  and  crossing-sweepers  asked,  I  gave,  un- 
hesitatingly, in  the  Australian  fashion,  as  one  gives 
matches  when  asked  for  them.  I  gave  only  pennies  ; 
and  now  was  startled  to  find  what  a  comparatively  large 
sum  can  be  disbursed  in  a  day  or  so,  in  single  pennies, 
upon  'bus  fares,  newspapers,  charity,  and  the  like. 

The  two  men  to  whom  my  only  letters  of  introduction 
were  addressed  were  both  out  of  town  :  one  in  Algiers, 
the  other,  I  gathered,  on  the  Riviera.  I  suppose  most 
people  in  London  have  never  reflected  on  the  oddity  of 
the  position  of  that  person  in  their  midst  who  does  not 
know  one  solitary  soul  in  the  entire  vast  city.  And 
yet,  there  must  always  be  hundreds  in  that  position. 
There  was  a  time  when  I  had  serious  thoughts  of  asking 
a  policeman  to  recommend  to  me  the  cheapest  quarter 
in  which  one  might  obtain  a  lodging,  for  I  had  already 
conceived  a  great  admiration  for  the  uniformed  wardens 
of  London's  streets. 

I  studied  the  newspaper  advertisements  under  the 
heading  '  Apartments.'  But  some  instinct  told  me  these 
did  not  refer  to  London's  cheapest  lodgings,  and  I  felt 
a  most  urgent  need  for  economy  in  the  handling  of  my 
small  hoard.  These  few  pounds  must  support  me,  I 
thought,  until  I  could  cut  out  a  niche  for  myself,  here 
where  there  seemed  hardly  room  for  the  feet  of  the 
existing  inhabitants.  Already  in  quite  a  vague  way  I 
had   become   conscious   of   the   shadow   of   that   dread 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    218 

presence  whose  existence  colours  the  outlook  of  millions 
in  England.  I  wonder  if  the  consciousness  had  begun  to 
affect  my  expression  ! 

My  choice  of  a  locality  was  made  eventually  upon 
ridiculously  inadequate  grounds.  In  a  newspaper  article 
dealing  with  charitable  work,  I  came  upon  some  such 
words  as  these  :  '  Life  is  supported  upon  an  astoundingly 
small  outlay  of  money  among  the  poor  householders,  and 
even  poorer  lodgers,  in  these  streets  opening  out  of  the 
Seven  Sisters  Road  in  the  district  lying  between  Stoke 
Newington  and  South  Tottenham.  Here  arc  families 
whose  weekly  rental  is  far  less  than  many  a  man  spends 
on  his  solitary  dinner  in  club  or  restaurant,'  etc. 

'  This  appears  to  be  the  sort  of  place  for  me,'  I  told 
myself.  Remembering  certain  green  omnibuses  that 
bore  the  name  of  Stoke  Newington,  I  descended  from  one 
of  them  an  hour  later  outside  a  hostelry  called  the 
Weavers'  Arms.  (Transatlantic  slang  has  dubbed  these 
places  4  gin-mills  ' ;  a  telling  name,  I  think.) 

One  of  my  difficulties  was  that  I  had  no  clear  idea 
what  amount  would  be  considered  cheap  in  London,  by 
way  of  rent  for  a  single  room.  The  one  thing  clear  in  my 
mind  was  that  I  must,  if  possible,  find  the  cheapest. 
I  had  already  gathered  from  chance  talk,  on  board  the 
Orimba  and  elsewhere,  that  the  Australian  '  board  and 
lodging  '  system  was  not  much  used  in  London,  save  in 
strata  which  would  be  above  my  means.  The  cheaper 
way,  I  gathered,  was  to  pay  so  much  for  a  room  and 
4  attendance,'  which  should  include  the  preparation  of 
one's  own  food.  The  cheapest  method  of  all,  I  had 
heard,  and  the  method  I  meant  to  adopt,  was  to  rent  a 
furnished  room,  but  without  4  attendance,'  and  to  provide 
meals  for  myself  in  the  room  or  outside. 

By  this  time  the  thing  most  desirable  in  my  eyes  was 
the  possession  of  a  room  of  my  own.  I  wanted  badly 
to  be  able  to  shut  myself  in  with  my  luggage  ;  to  secure 
privacy,  and  be  able  to  think,  without  the  distracting 


214   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

consciousness  of  my  small  capital  melting  away  from 
me  at  an  unnecessary  and  alarmingly  rapid  pace.  Any- 
thing equivalent  to  the  comparative  refinement,  quiet- 
ness, cleanliness,  and  spacious  outlook  of  my  North  Shore 
quarters  was  evidently  quite  out  of  the  question ;  and 
would  have  been,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  even  at  double 
their  cost  in  Sydney. 

Late  that  afternoon  a  cab  conveyed  me  with  my  baggage 
to  No.  27  Mellor  Street,  a  small  thoroughfare  leading  out 
of  the  Seven  Sisters  Road.  Here  I  had  secured  a  barely 
furnished  top-floor  room,  with  a  tiny  oil-stove  in  it,  for 
4s.  6d.  per  week.  I  paid  a  week's  rent  in  advance,  and, 
having  deposited  my  bags  there,  I  sallied  forth  into  the 
Seven  Sisters  Road,  with  the  room  key  in  my  pocket,  to 
make  domestic  purchases.  Billy  cans  were  not  available, 
but  I  bought  a  tin  kettle  for  my  oil-stove,  some  tea,  a 
very  little  simple  crockery  and  cutlery,  some  wholemeal 
brown  bread  (which  I  had  heard  was  the  most  nutritious 
variety),  butter,  and  cheese.  Also  some  lamp  oil,  for  the 
simple  furniture  of  my  room  included,  in  addition  to  its 
oil-stove,  a  blue  china  lamp  with  pink  and  silver  flowers 
upon  its  sides.  Most  of  these  things  I  ordered  in  one 
shop,  and  then,  carrying  one  or  two  other  purchases, 
hurried  back  to  my  room  to  be  ready  for  the  shop-boy 
who  was  to  deliver  the  remainder. 

Over  the  little  meal  that  I  presently  prepared,  with  the 
aid  of  the  oil-stove,  my  spirits,  which  had  fallen  steadily 
during  the  hunt  for  a  room,  brightened  considerably. 
Pipe  in  mouth  I  made  some  alterations  in  the  disposition 
of  my  furniture,  placing  the  little  table  nearer  to  the 
window,  and  shifting  the  bed  to  give  me  a  glimpse  of 
sky  when  I  should  be  occupying  it.  The  oil-stove  made 
a  regrettable  stench  I  found,  and  the  lamp  appeared  to 
suffer  from  some  nervous  affection  which  made  its  flame 
jump  spasmodically  at  intervals.  The  mattress  on  my 
bed  was  extraordinarily  diversified  in  contour  by  little 
mountain  ranges,  kopjes  which  could  not  be  induced  to 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    215 

amalgamate  with  its  general  plan.  Also,  I  was  not  so 
much  alone  in  my  sanctum  as  I  had  hoped  to  be.  There 
were  other  forms  of  life,  whose  company  I  do  not  think 
I  ever  entirely  evaded  during  my  whole  period  as  a  lodger 
of  the  poorest  grade  in  London. 

But  for  the  time  these  trifles  did  not  greatly  trouble 
me.  Drunken  brawls  which  occurred  later  in  the  evening, 
immediately  under  my  window,  were  a  nuisance.  But 
it  was  all  new ;  my  health  of  mind  and  body  was  sound 
and  unstrained  ;  and  I  presently  went  to  bed  rather 
well  pleased  with  myself,  after  an  hour  spent  in  considering 
and  adding  to  sundry  notes  I  had  accumulated,  for 
articles  and  sketches  presently  to  be  written. 

My  hope  was  to  be  able  to  win  a  place  in  London 
journalism  without  having  any  sort  of  an  appointment. 
The  very  phrase  '  free-lance  '  appealed  to  my  sense  of 
the  romantic.  '  All  the  clever  fellows  are  free-lances, 
you  know,  in  the  Old  Country.'  I  recalled  many  such 
statements  made  to  me  in  Sydney.  Prudence  might  have 
led  me  to  offer  myself  for  a  post  of  some  kind,  if  the 
editor  to  whom  my  letter  of  introduction  was  addressed 
had  been  visible.  But  he  was  not  in  London  ;  and,  in 
my  heart,  I  was  rather  glad.  It  should  be  as  a  free 
agent,  an  unknown  adventurer  in  Grub  Street,  that  I 
would  win  my  journalistic  and  literary  spurs  in  the 
Old  World.     Other  men  had  succeeded.  .  .  . 

Musing  in  this  hopeful  vein  I  fell  asleep,  with  never 
a  hint  of  a  presentiment  of  what  did  actually  lie  before  me. 
I  suppose  the  chiefest  boon  that  mortals  enjoy  is  just  that 
negative  blessing :  their  total  inability  to  see  even  so  far 
into  the  future  as  to-morrow  morning. 

IV 

The  compilation  of  anything  like  a  detailed  record  of 
my  first  two  years  in  London  would  be  a  task  to  alarm 
a  Zola.     I  could  not  possibly  face  it ;  and,  if  I  did,  no 


216   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

good  end  could  be  served  by  such  a  harrowing  of  my  own 
feelings. 

Such  a  compilation  would  be  a  veritable  monument  of 
squalid  details ;  of  details  infinitely  mean  and  small, 
and,  for  the  most  part,  infinitely,  unredeemedly  ugly. 
Heaven  knows  I  have  no  need  to  remind  myself  by  the 
act  of  writing  of  all  those  dismal  details.  Mere  poverty, 
starvation  itself,  even,  may  be  lightsome  things,  by 
comparison  with  the  fetid  misery  which  surrounded  me 
during  the  major  part  of  those  two  years. 

People  say,  with  a  smile  or  a  sigh,  as  their  mood 
dictates,  that  one  half  the  world  does  not  know  how  the 
other  half  lives.  So  far  is  that  truism  from  comprehending 
the  tragic  reality  of  what  poverty  in  London  means, 
that  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  this  :  there  is  no 
wider  divergence  between  the  lives  of  tigers  and  the 
lives  of  men  than  lies  between  the  lives  of  English 
people,  whose  homes  in  some  quarters  I  could  name 
are  separated  by  no  more  than  the  width  of  a  street,  a 
mews,  and,  it  may  be,  a  walled  strip  of  blackened  grass 
and  tree-trunks. 

It  is  not  simply  that  some  well-to-do  people  are  ignorant 
regarding  details  of  the  lives  of  the  poor.  It  is  that  not 
a  single  one  among  the  cultivated  and  comfortably  off 
people,  with  whom  I  came  to  mix  later  on,  had  any 
conception  at  all  regarding  the  nature  and  character  of 
the  sort  of  life  I  saw  all  round  me  during  my  first  two 
years  in  London.  I  consider  that  London's  cab  horses 
were  substantially  better  off  than  the  section  of  London's 
poor  among  whom  I  lived  in  places  like  South  Tottenham, 
the  purlieus  of  that  long  unlovely  highway — the  Seven 
Sisters  Road. 

Had  I  been  of  a  more  gregarious  and  social  bent,  the 
experience  must  have  broken  my  heart,  or  unhinged  my 
mind,  I  think.  But,  from  the  very  first  day,  I  began 
systematically  to  avoid  intercourse  with  those  about  me  ; 
and  in  time  this  became  more  and  more  important  to 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    217 

me.  So  much  so  indeed  that,  as  I  remember  it,  quite  a 
large  proportion  of  my  many  changes  of  lodgings  were 
due  to  some  threatened  intimacy,  some  difficulty  over 
avoiding  a  fellow  lodger.  Other  moves  were  due  to 
plagues  of  insects,  appalling  odours,  persistent  fighting 
and  screaming  in  the  next  room,  wife-beating ;  in  one 
case  a  murder ;  in  another  the  fact  that  a  sodden  wretch 
smashed  my  door  in,  under  the  impression  that  I  had 
hidden  his  wife,  by  whose  exertions  he  had  lived,  and 
soaked,  for  years.  I  must  have  removed  more  than  a 
score  of  times  in  those  two  years,  and  more  than  once  it 
was  to  seek  a  cheaper  lodging — cheaper  than  the  previous 
hell! 

No,  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  attempt  a  detailed 
record  of  this  period.  Even  consideration  of  it  in  outline 
causes  the  language  of  melodrama  to  spring  to  the  pen. 
Melodrama  !  What  drama  ever  conceived  in  the  mind 
of  man  could  plumb  the  reeking  depths  of  the  life  of  the 
vicious  among  London's  poor  ?  Things  may  be  a  little 
better  nowadays.  Beyond  all  question,  the  way  of  the 
aspirant  in  Grub  Street  appears  vastly  smoother  than  in 
my  time.  It  is  all  cut  and  dried  now,  they  say — schools 
of  journalism,  literary  agents,  organisations  of  one  sort 
and  another.  But  with  regard  to  the  life  of  the  very 
poor,  of  the  submerged,  I  have  seen  signs  in  the  twentieth 
century  which  to  my  experienced  eye  suggested  that  no 
fundamental  change  had  taken  place  since  I  lived  among 
these  cruelly  debased  people. 

One  would  never  dare  to  say  it  in  print,  of  course,  but 
I  know  very  well  that,  while  I  lived  among  them,  I  was 
perfectly  convinced  that,  for  very  many — not  for  all, 
of  course,  but  for  very  many — there  could  be  no  funda- 
mental improvement  this  side  of  the  grave.  For  them 
the  only  really  suitable  and  humane  institution,  I  told 
myself  a  hundred  times,  would  be  a  place  of  compulsory 
euthanasia — comfortably  equipped  lethal  cubicles.  For 
some  there  would  be  little  need  of  the  compulsory  clement. 


218   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Police  court  officials  (especially  the  court  missionaries,  the 
only  philanthropic  workers  who  earned  my  admiration ; 
and  they,  of  course,  belonged  to  a  properly  organised  corps, 
working  on  salary)  know  something  of  these  people ;  but 
the  big,  bright,  busy  world  of  cleanly,  educated  folk 
know  less  of  them  than  they  know  of  prehistoric  fauna. 

I  have  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  men  who  beat 
their  wives  every  week  of  their  lives,  and  figured  in 
police  courts  every  month  of  their  lives,  when  not  in 
prison ;  with  women  who,  in  their  lives,  had  swallowed 
up  a  dozen  small  homes,  through  the  pawn-shops  and  in 
the  form  of  gin  ;  with  men  and  women  who,  so  degraded 
were  they,  were  like  as  not  to  kick  an  infant  as  they 
passed  if  they  saw  one  on  the  ground  ;  with  human  beings 
who  had  fallen  so  very  low  that  on  my  honour  I  had  far 
liefer  share  a  room  with  a  hog  than  with  one  of  them. 
Yes,  the  close  companionship  of  swine  would  have  been 
much  less  distasteful ;  and,  be  it  noted,  less  unwholesome. 
I  have  written  articles  about  Australian  wattle  blossom, 
about  the  bush  and  the  sea — oh,  about  a  thousand 
things  ! — with  nothing  more  than  a  few  inches  of  filthy 
lath  and  plaster  between  my  aching  head  and  such  human 
wrecks  as  these. 

'  Quite  brutal !  '  one  has  heard  some  ignorant  innocent 
exclaim,  when  accident  gave  him  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a 
denizen  of  the  under  world.  Brutal !  I  know  something 
of  brutes,  and  something  of  London's  under  world,  and 
I  am  well  assured  no  brute  known  to  zoology  ever 
reaches  the  loathsome  depths  touched  by  humanity's 
lowest  dregs.  It  would  sicken  me  to  recall  instances  in 
proof  of  this  ;  but  I  have  known  scores  of  them.  The 
beast  brutes  have  no  alcohol.  That  makes  a  world  of 
difference.  They  are  actuated  mainly  by  such  cleanly 
motives  as  healthy  hunger.  They  have  no  nameless 
vices  ;  and  they  live  in  surroundings  which  make  dirt, 
as  dirt  exists  among  humanity's  under  world,  impossible. 
In  changing  my  lodging  I  have   fled  from  neighbours 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    219 

who,  at  times,  sheltered  acquaintances  of  whom  it  might 
literally  be  said  that  you  could  not  walk  upon  pavement 
they  had  trodden  without  risk  of  physical  contamination. 

Drink  !  A  man  occupied  a  room  next  to  mine,  at  one 
time,  of  which  his  mother  was  the  tenant.  Somewhere, 
I  was  told,  he  had  at  least  one  wife,  upon  whom  he 
sponged,  and  children.  (His  kind  invariably  beget 
children,  many  children.)  This  man  was  in  middle  life, 
and  his  mother,  a  frail  creature,  was  old.  She  had  some 
small  store  of  money ;  enough,  I  was  told,  for  the  few 
more  months  she  was  likely  to  live,  and  to  save  her  from 
a  pauper  funeral.  She  had  some  lingering  internal 
complaint.  When  the  man  had  finished  drinking  his 
mother's  little  hoard  away,  he  drove  her  out  of  doors — 
not  merely  with  shameful  words,  but  with  blows — to 
get  work,  and  earn  liquor  for  him.  Incredible  as  it 
seems  she  did  get  work,  and  he  did  take  her  earnings, 
and  drink  them,  for  a  number  of  weeks.  Then  came 
the  morning  when  she  could  not  leave  her  bed.  That 
week  the  rest  of  her  furniture  was  sold,  and  the  son 
drank  it.  On  Saturday  night  he  threw  his  mother  from 
her  bed  to  the  floor,  removed  the  bed  and  bedding,  and 
drank  them.  She  was  dead  when  he  returned,  and  on 
Sunday  morning  he  took  from  his  murdered  mother's 
body  the  wedding  ring  which  she,  miraculously,  had 
preserved  to  the  end,  and  drank  that.  No  one  slew  him. 
There  was  no  lethal  chamber  for  him.  He  did  not  even 
figure  in  a  police  court  for  this  particular  murder. 

People  think  V Assommoir  dreadful,  horrible.  I  cannot 
imagine  what  stayed  Zola's  hand  ;  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  his  astonishing  reticence,  if  he  really  knew 
anything  of  the  worst  degradation  for  which  drink  is 
accountable.  In  two  short  years  I  must  have  come 
upon  a  score  of  instances  in  every  respect  as  horrible  as 
that  I  have  mentioned.  And  some  that  were  worse  ; 
yes,  more  vile ;  too  vile  to  recall  even  in  thought. 
Brothers    and    sisters,   fathers  and  daughters,   mothers 


220   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

and  sons —  Oh !  shame  and  degradation  unspeakable ! 
I  do  not  know  if  any  section  of  the  community  is  to 
blame.  I  do  know  that  the  glory  and  brightness  of  life, 
the  romance  and  the  splendour  of  life — beauty,  chivalry, 
loyalty,  pomp,  grandeur,  nobility  —  all  have  been  for 
ever  robbed  of  some  of  their  refulgence  for  me,  as  the 
result  of  two  years  in  the  under  world  of  London.  Life 
could  never  be  quite  the  same  again. 

I  stood  at  the  base  of  a  statue  and  watched  the  stately 
passage  among  her  cheering  subjects  of  the  most  venerable 
lady  in  Christendom.  My  very  soul  thrilled  loyalty  to 
Queen  Victoria,  loyalty  that  was  proud  and  glad.  And 
on  the  instant  it  was  stabbed  by  the  thought  of  another 
widowed  mother,  flung  from  the  death-bed  her  worn 
fingers  had  toiled  to  save,  and  flung  to  die  on  the  floor, 
by  her  son.     The  shame  of  it,  in  Christian  London  ! 

Were  the  poor  always  with  us  ?  Probably.  But  the 
awful  human  vermin  that  I  knew,  were  they  always  with 
us  ?  I  doubt  it ;  nay,  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  believe  they 
are  part  of  England's  sin,  of  England's  modern  wickedness. 
I  believe  they  are  the  maggots  bred  out  of  the  sore  upon 
which  our  modern  industrialism  is  based.  When  I 
looked  upon  the  vilest  of  this  city  spawn,  if  my  rising 
gorge  permitted  thought  at  all,  I  always  had  visions  of 
little  shrinking  children  whipped  to  work  in  English 
factories  and  mines  and  potteries  ;  of  souls  ground  out 
of  anaemic  bodies  that  Manchester  might  fatten.  Free 
trade — licensed  slaughter  !  The  rights  of  the  individual — 
the  sacred  liberty  of  the  subject !  Oh,  I  know  it  made 
England  the  emporium  of  the  world,  and  built  up  some 
splendid  fortunes,  and — well,  I  believe  it  gave  us  the 
human  vermin  of  our  cities. 

There  is  no  cure  for  them  in  this  world.  Nor  yet  for 
their  damned  and  doomed  offspring — while  the  individual 
liberty  shibboleths  endure,  while  mere  numbers  rule, 
or  while  our  degenerate  fear  of  every  form  of  compulsion 
lasts.      And    the    present    tendency  is,   not    merely    to 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    221 

stipulate  for  complete  freedom  of  action  for  the  poor 
wretches,  but  to  invite  them  to  govern,  by  count  of  heads. 
So  marvellously  enlightened  are  we  becoming  ! 

Those  nightmarish  two  years  seem  a  long  way  off. 
I  must  be  careful  not  to  mislead  myself  regarding  them. 
I  have  used  such  phrases  as  4  The  poor  of  London.'  I 
think  I  would  delete  those  phrases  if  I  were  writing  for 
other  than  my  own  eyes.  I  would  not  pretend  that  I 
like  the  poor  of  London,  as  companions.  But  they  have, 
as  a  class,  notable  and  admirable  qualities.  And  many 
of  the  very  poorest  of  them  have  more  of  courage,  and 
more  I  think  of  honesty,  than  the  average  member  of 
the  class  I  came  to  know  better  later  on  :  the  big  division 
which  includes  all  the  professional  people.  The  human 
wrecks  are  of  the  poor,  of  course.  JBut  the  really  typical 
poor  people  arc  workers  ;   the  wrecks,  their  parasites. 

Nothing  in  life  is  much  more  remarkable  to  me  than  an 
old  man  or  an  old  woman  of  the  poorer  working-class, 
say,  in  South  Tottenham,  who,  at  the  end  of  a  long, 
struggling  life  remains  decent,  honest,  cleanly,  upright, 
and  self-respecting.  That  I  think  truly  marvellous.  I 
am  moved  to  uncover  my  head  before  such  an  one.  The 
innate  decency  of  such  people  thrills  me  to  pride  of  race, 
where  a  naval  review  or  a  procession  of  royalties  would 
leave  me  cold.  I  know  something  of  the  environment 
in  which  those  English  men  and  women  have  lived  out 
their  arduous  lives.  Among  them  I  have  seen  evidences 
of  a  bravery  which  I  deliberately  believe  to  be  greater 
than  any  that  has  won  the  Victoria  Cross. 

I  once  had  a  room — which  I  had  to  leave  because  of 
its  closeness  to  a  noisy  street — immediately  over  a  base- 
ment in  which  one  old  bed-ridden  man  and  two  women 
lived.  The  man  had  been  bed-ridden  for  more  than 
thirty  years,  and  still  was  alive  ;  for  more  than  thirty 
years  !  His  wife  and  daughter  supported  him  and  them- 
selves. The  daughter  made  match-boxes,  and  was  paid 
2jd.  for  each  gross  ;  but  out  of  that  generous  remuneration 


222   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

she  had  to  buy  her  own  paste  and  thread.  The  mother 
lived  over  a  wash-tub.  They  all  worked,  slept,  and  ate, 
in  the  one  room,  of  course,  and  the  man  was  never  out- 
side it  for  a  moment. 

At  the  time  of  my  arrival  in  that  house,  the  daughter 
had  recently  taken  to  her  bed.  She  was  a  middle-aged 
woman,  far  gone  in  consumption.  It  happened  that  a 
notorious  inebriate,  a  woman,  during  one  of  her  periodical 
visits  to  the  local  police  court,  told  a  missionary  about 
my  neighbours.  He  visited  them,  and  was  impressed, 
though  accustomed  to  such  sights.  But  he  could  do 
nothing  to  help,  it  seemed.  They  were  very  proud,  and 
the  mother  washed  very  well ;  so  well  that  she  had  work 
enough  to  keep  her  going  day  and  night ;  and,  working 
day  and  night,  was  able  to  earn  an  average  of  close  upon 
eleven  shillings  weekly,  of  which  only  four  shillings  had 
to  be  paid  in  rent,  and  a  trifle  in  medicine,  soap,  fuel, 
etc.,  leaving  from  five  to  six  shillings  a  week  for  the  two 
invalids  and  herself  to  live  upon.  So  there  was  nothing 
to  worry  about,  she  said.  She  had  stood  at  the  tub  for 
thirty  years,  and  .  .  . 

Well,  the  missionary  spoke  to  other  folk,  and  other  folk 
were  touched,  and  finally  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  came, 
with  an  ambulance  and  a  carriage,  and  twenty  golden 
sovereigns.  The  old  woman's  liberty  was  not  to  be 
interfered  with.  She  herself  was  to  have  the  spending 
of  the  money.  She  was  to  take  her  patients  to  the  sea- 
side, and  rest  for  a  few  weeks,  after  her  thirty  years  at 
the  tub.  I  find  a  difficulty  in  setting  the  thing  down,  for 
I  can  smell  the  steamy  odours  of  that  basement  now. 

This  remarkable  old  woman  quite  civilly  declined  the 
gift,  and  explained  how  well  she  could  manage  without 
assistance ;  proudly  adding  that  she  had  no  fear  of 
failing  in  her  weekly  subscription  to  the  funeral  club,  so 
that  her  husband  was  happy  in  the  knowledge  that  no 
pauper  funeral  awaited  him.  She  was  barely  sixty-two 
herself,  and  had  managed  very  well  these  thirty  years  and 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    223 

more,  and  trusted,  with  thanks,  that  she  would  manage  to 
the  end  without  charity. 

Argument  was  futile.  So  the  lady  and  gentleman 
drove  away  with  their  bright  sovereigns  ;  and  when  my 
next  removal  came  the  old  woman  was  still  at  her  tub, 
the  other  two  helpless  ones  still  on  their  beds,  and  living 
yet.  One  need  not  consider  the  wild  unwisdom  of  it ; 
but  in  the  astounding  courage  and  endurance  of  it,  I 
hold  there  is  lesson  and  ensample  for  the  bravest  man  in 
British  history.  And  among  the  working  poor  such 
incidents  cannot  be  very  rare,  because  I  knew  of  quite  a 
number  in  my  very  brief  experience. 

That  the  England  from  whose  loins  such  master  men 
and  women  have  sprung  should  have  bred  also  the 
festering  spawn  of  human  vermin  that  litters  many  of 
the  mean  streets  of  London,  aye,  and  the  scats  in  its 
parks  and  gardens,  is  a  tragic  humiliation  ;  an  indict- 
ment, too,  as  I  see  it.  Charity  may  cover  a  multitude 
of  sins.  It  can  never  cover  this  running  sore  ;  or,  if  it 
should  ever  cover  it  completely,  so  much  the  worse  ;  for 
I  swear  it  can  never  heal,  cleanse,  or  remove  it.  Nothing 
sentimental,  personal,  and  volunatry,  nothing  sporadic 
and  spasmodic  can  ever  accomplish  that.  And  to  approach 
it  with  bleatings  about  the  will  of  the  people,  universal 
suffrage,  old  age,  or  any  other  kind  of  pension,  dole,  or 
the  like,  is  to  be  guilty  of  a  cruel  and  contemptible  kind 
of  mockery. 


Looking  baek  across  the  long  succession  of  crowded 
years  upon  the  period  of  my  struggle  to  obtain  a  foothold 
in  the  London  world  of  journalism  and  literature,  I  see 
a  eertain  amount  of  pathos,  some  bathos,  and  some- 
thing too  in  the  way  of  steadfast,  unniercenary  endur- 
ance, which  is  not  altogether  unworthy  of  respect. 

In  my  humble  opinion  a  foothold  in  that  world  was  at 
least  rather  better  worth  having  in  those  days  than  it  is 


224   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

to-day  for  a  thinking  man  of  literary  instincts.  It  was 
certainly  vastly  harder  to  obtain,  in  the  absence  of  any 
influence  or  assistance  from  established  friends. 

Of  late  years  I  have  met  representatives  of  a  type  of 
young  journalist  which  had  not  yet  come  into  existence 
when  I  arrived  in  London.  In  those  days  (when  the 
published  price  of  novels  was  still  31s.  6d.,  and  halfpenny 
dailies  were  unknown)  there  were  three  kinds  of  news- 
paper men.  There  were  the  hacks,  very  able  fellows, 
some  of  them,  but  mostly  given  to  bar  and  taproom  life  ; 
there  were  thoroughly  well  qualified,  widely  informed, 
sober  pressmen  of  the  middle  sort,  who  often  spent  their 
whole  lives  in  one  employ  ;  and  there  were  literary  men, 
frequently  of  high  scholarly  attainments,  who  wrote  for 
newspapers.  To-day,  there  are  not  very  many  repre- 
sentatives of  these  three  divisions.  The  modern  host  of 
journeymen,  with  their  captains,  keen  men  of  business, 
may  represent  a  great  advance  upon  their  predecessors. 
Since  I  am  told  we  live  in  an  age  of  wonderfully  rapid 
progress,  I  suppose  they  must.  They  certainly  are 
different.  To  realise  this  fully  one  has  only  to  come  in 
contact,  once,  with  one  of  the  few  surviving  practitioners 
of  the  earlier  type.  They  stand  out  like  trees  in — shall  I 
say  ? — a  flower-bed. 

Ignorance  of  journalistic  conditions  and  requirements, 
combined  with  a  foolish  sort  of  personal  sensitiveness  or 
vanity,  had  more  to  do  with  my  early  hardships  and 
difficulties  than  anything  in  the  quality  of  my  work. 
In  the  light  of  practical  knowledge  acquired  later  I  see 
that  I  might  with  ease  have  earned  at  least  five  times 
the  amount  of  money  I  did  earn  in  those  first  years  by 
doing  about  half  the  amount  of  work  I  did,  and — knowing 
how  to  dispose  of  it.  I  concentrated  my  entire  stock  of 
youthful  energy  upon  writing  and  reading,  and  really 
worked  very  hard  indeed.  That,  I  thought,  was  my 
business.  Some  vague,  benevolent  power,  '  the  World,' 
I  suppose,  was  to  see  to  it  that  I  got  my  reward.     My 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    225 

part  was  to  do  the  work.  Good  work  might  be  trusted 
to  bring  its  own  reward.  And,  in  any  case,  I  asked  no 
more  than  that  I  should  be  able  to  live  with  decency  and 
go  on  with  my  work.  I  no  longer  had  the  faintest  sort 
of  interest  in  the  idea  of  saving  money.  That  ambition 
died  with  the  end  of  my  saving  days  in  Sydney.  I  never 
thought  about  it  at  all.     It  simply  had  ceased  to  exist. 

Well,  my  work,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  not  at  all  bad, 
and  it  was  amazingly  abundant.  I  would  wager  I  wrote 
not  less  than  three  hundred  articles,  sketches,  and  stories 
during  my  first  year,  probably  more,  and  always  in  the 
most  hostile  and  unsuitable  sort  of  environments.  And 
my  reward  in  that  first  year  was  slightly  less  than  twenty 
pounds  sterling,  something  well  below  an  average  of  two 
guineas  each  month.  I  suppose  I  might  have  starved 
in  that  first  year  if  I  had  not  had  some  twenty  pounds  in 
hand  at  the  beginning  of  it.  I  had  not  twenty  shillings 
in  hand  at  the  end  of  it,  and  yet  I  had  already  learned  what 
hunger  meant ;  not  the  bracing  sensation  of  being  sharp 
set  and  enjoying  one's  meal,  but  the  dull,  deadening, 
sickly  sensation  which  comes  of  sustained  work  during 
weeks  of  bread  and  butter  (or  dripping)  diet,  and  none 
too  much  of  that. 

The  devilish  thing  about  an  insufficient  dietary  is  that 
it  saps  one's  manhood.  Few  people  whose  circumstances 
have  been  uniformly  comfortable  realise  that  the  stomach 
is  the  real  scat  of  self-respect,  courage,  dignity,  good 
manners,  and  the  higher  sort  of  honour,  not  to  mention 
the  spirits  and  emotions.  Most  would  scoff  at  the 
suggestion,  of  course,  feeling  that  it  showed  the  low 
nature  of  the  suggestcr.  And  the  thing  of  it  is  they 
cannot  possibly  test  the  truth  of  it.  For,  given  an 
average  share  of  self-control  and  will-power,  any  educated 
person  can  starve  him  or  herself  for  a  week  or  more, 
deliberately  and  of  set  purpose,  without  much  incon- 
venience, with  no  difficulty,  and  no  loss  of  self-respect. 

It    is    starvation,    or   semi-starvation  from    necessity, 

p 


226   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

combined  with  a  hard-working  routine  of  life,  and  without 
the  soul-supporting  knowledge  that  one  can  stop  and 
order  a  good  meal  whenever  one  chooses  ;  it  is  continuous 
and  enforced  lack  of  proper  nutriment,  endured  through- 
out sustained  and  unsuccessful  efforts  to  overcome  the 
poverty  that  enforces  it,  that  tells  upon  one's  humanity 
and  coarsens  the  fibre  of  one's  personality.  There  is  a 
certain  sustaining  exhilaration  about  voluntary  abstin- 
ence from  food,  due  to  the  contemplation  of  one's  mind's 
mastery.  The  reverse  is  true  of  the  hunger  due  to  the 
unsuccess  of  one's  efforts  to  obtain  the  wherewithal  to  get 
better  food  and  more  of  it. 

Poverty  is  a  teacher,  a  most  powerful  schoolmaster,  I 
freely  grant.  But  the  most  of  the  lessons  it  teaches 
are  lessons  I  had  liefer  not  learn.  As  a  teacher  its  one- 
vehicle  of  instruction  is  the  cane.  First,  it  weakens  and 
humiliates  the  pupil ;  and  then,  at  every  turn,  it  beats 
him,  teaching  him  to  walk  with  cowering  shoulders, 
furtive  eyes,  a  sour  and  suspicious  mind.  I  have  no  good 
word  to  say  for  poverty  ;  and  I  believe  an  insufficient 
dietary  to  be  infernally  bad  for  any  one — worse,  upon 
the  whole,  than  an  over-abundant  one — and  especially  so 
for  young  men  or  women  who  are  striving  to  produce 
original  work. 

I  have  heard  veterans  criticise  their  sleek  juniors, 
with  a  round  assertion  that  if  these  youngsters  had  had 
to  fight  their  way  on  a  crust,  as  the  veteran  said  he 
did,  they  would  be  vastly  better  men  for  it.  I  do  not 
believe  it.  Hard  work,  and  even  disappointment  and 
loss,  are  doubtless  rich  in  educational  and  disciplinary 
values ;  but  not  that  wolfish,  soul-crushing  fight  for 
insufficient  food,  not  mere  poverty.  I  have  tried  them, 
and  I  know. 

Every  day  a  procession  of  more  or  less  battered  veterans 
in  life's  fight  straggles  across  the  floors  of  the  police 
courts,  from  waiting-room  to  dock  and  dock  to  cells. 
'  How  extraordinarily  vicious  the  poor  are  !  '    says  some 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    227 

shallow  observer.  In  reality,  a  very  large  proportion  of 
these  battered  ones  arc  there  as  drinkers.  And,  in  any 
case,  the  whole  of  them  put  together  (including  the  many 
who  require  not  penal  but  medical  treatment),  supposing 
they  were  all  viciously  criminal — all  violent  thieves,  say 
— what  a  tiny  handful  they  represent  of  the  poor  of 
London  ! 

The  enormous  majority  of  the  poor  never  set  foot  in  a 
police  court.  And  yet,  for  one  who  knows  anything  of 
the  conditions  in  which  they  live,  how  marvellous  that 
is  !  Most  educated  people,  after  all,  go  through  life, 
from  cradle  to  grave,  without  once  experiencing  any 
really  strong  temptation  to  break  the  law  of  the  land. 
The  very  poor  are  hardly  ever  free  from  such  temptation  ; 
hardly  ever  free  from  it.  I  know.  I,  with  all  the  advan- 
tages  behind  me  of  traditions,  associations,  memories, 
hopes,  knowledge,  and  tastes,  to  which  most  very  poor 
people  are  strangers,  I  have  felt  my  fingers  itch,  my 
stomach  crave  woundily,  as  I  passed  along  a  mean  street 
in  which  food-stuffs  were  exposed  outside  shop  windows  ; 
a  practice  which,  upon  a  variety  of  counts,  ought  long 
since  to  have  been  abolished  by  law. 

Oh,  the  decency,  the  restraint,  and  the  enduring  law- 
abidingness  of  London's  poor,  in  the  face  of  continuously 
flaunting  plenty,  of  gross  ostentation  !  It  is  the  greatest 
miracle  of  our  time.  The  comparative  absence  of  either 
religion  or  philosophy  among  them  to-day  makes  the 
spectacle  of  their  docility,  to  me,  far  more  remarkable 
than  anything  in  the  history  of  mediaeval  martyrdom. 
When  I  come  to  consider  also  the  prodigiously  irritant 
influences  of  modern  life  in  its  legislation,  journalism, 
amusements,  swift  locomotion,  and,  not  least,  its  educa- 
tion for  the  masses,  then  I  sec  wireless  telegraphy  and 
such  things  as  trifles,  and  the  abiding  self-restraint  of  the 
very  poor  as  our  greatest  marvel. 


228   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

VI 

After  my  second  year  in  London  I  became  approxi- 
mately wealthy.  Early  in  the  third  year,  at  all  events, 
I  earned  as  much  as  five  guineas  in  a  single  month,  and 
ate  meat  almost  every  day ;  in  other  words  I  began  to 
earn  pretty  nearly  one-third  as  much  as  I  had  earned 
some  years  previously  in  Sydney.  I  now  bought  books, 
and  no  longer  always,  as  before,  at  the  cost  of  a  meal  or 
so.  Holywell  Street  was  a  great  delight  to  me,  and  I 
never  quite  comprehended  how  Londoners  could  bring 
themselves  to  let  it  go.  I  doubt  if  Fleet  Street  raised  a 
single  protest,  and  yet —    Well,  it  was  surprising. 

I  wrote  rather  less  in  this  period,  and  used  more 
method  in  my  attacks  upon  the  editors.  I  even  succeeded 
in  actually  interviewing  one  or  two  of  them,  including 
the  gentleman  to  whom  I  carried  a  note  of  introduction 
from  a  colleague  he  had  never  met.  But  I  do  not  think 
I  gained  anything  by  these  interviews.  I  might  possibly 
have  done  so  had  they  come  earlier,  while  yet  the  freedom 
of  easier  days  and  of  sunshine  was  in  my  veins.  But  my 
mean  street  period  had  affected  me  materially.  It  had 
made  me  morbidly  self-conscious,  and  suspiciously  alive 
to  the  least  hint  of  patronage  or  brusqueness. 

It  is  true  I  gave  hours  to  the  penetration  of  editorial 
sanctums ;  but  in  nearly  every  case  my  one  desire,  when 
I  reached  them,  was  to  escape  from  them  quickly  without 
humiliation.  In  a  busy  man's  very  natural  dislike  of 
interruption,  or  anxious  glance  toward  his  clock,  I  saw 
contempt  for  my  obscurity  and  suspicion  of  my  poverty. 
And,  after  all,  I  had  nothing  to  say  to  these  gentlemen, 
save  to  beg  them  to  read  the  effusions  I  pressed  upon 
them  ;  an  appeal  they  would  far  rather  receive  on  half 
a  sheet  of  notepaper.  As  to  impressing  my  personality 
upon  them  in  any  way,  as  I  say,  my  uneasy  thoughts  in 
their  presence  were  usually  confined  to  the  problem  of 
how  best  I  might  escape  without  actual  discredit. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    229 

Once,  I  remember,  in  a  very  lean  month,  I  chanced  to 
see  one  of  the  Olympians  passing  with  god-like  non- 
chalance into  the  restaurant  of  a  well-known  hotel.  On 
the  instant,  and  without  giving  myself  time  for  reflection, 
I  followed  him  down  the  glittering  vestibule,  and  into 
a  palatial  dining-hall.  The  hour  was  something  between 
one  and  two  o'clock,  and  a  minute  before  I  had  been 
thoughtfully  weighing  the  relative  merits  of  an  immediate 
allowance  of  sausages  and  mashed  potatoes  for  fivepence, 
or  a  couple  of  stale  buns  for  one  penny,  to  be  followed 
at  nightfall  by  a  real  banquet — seven -pennyworth  of 
honest  beef  and  vegetables.  Now,  with  a  trifle  over  four 
shillings  in  my  pocket,  I  was,  to  outward  seeming,  care- 
lessly scanning  a  menu,  in  which  no  single  dish,  not  even 
the  soup,  seemed  to  cost  less  than  about  three  times  the 
price  of  one  of  my  best  dinners. 

But  at  the  next  table  sat  a  London  editor.  I  was 
free  to  contemplate  him.  Was  not  that  feast  enough  for 
such  as  I  ?  Evidently  I  thought  it  was,  for  I  told  the 
waiter  with  an  elaborate  assumption  of  boredom  that  I 
did  not  feel  like  eating  much,  but  would  see  what  I  could 
make  of  a  little  of  the  soup  St.  Germain.  I  wondered 
often  if  the  man  noticed  the  remarkable  manner  in 
which  the  crisp  French  rolls  on  that  table  disappeared, 
while  I  toyed  languidly  with  my  soup.  I  did  not  dare  to 
ask  for  more  rolls  when  I  had  made  an  end  of  the  four 
or  five  that  were  on  the  table  ;  but  I  could  have  eaten 
a  dozen  of  them  without  much  difficulty. 

'  No.  thank  you.  I  think  I  shall  be  better  without 
anything  to-day,'  I  said  to  the  waiter  who  drew  my 
attention  to  a  sumptuous  volume  which  I  had  already 
discovered  to  be  the  wine-list.  There  was  a  delicate 
suggestion  in  my  tone  (I  hoped)  that  occasional  abstinence 
from  wine,  say.  at  luncheon  had  been  found  beneficial 
for  my  gout.  Certainly,  if  he  counted  his  rolls,  the  man 
could  hardly  have  suspected  me  of  a  diabetic  tendency. 

All  this  time  I  studied  the  profile  of  the  editor,  while  he 


230   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

leisurely  discussed,  perhaps,  half  a  sovereign's  worth  of 
luncheon.  I  hoped — and  again  feared — he  might  presently 
recognise  me;  but  he  only  looked  blandly  through  me 
once  or  twice  to  more  important  objects  beyond.  And 
just  as  I  had  concluded  that  it  was  not  humanly  possible 
to  spend  any  longer  over  one  spoonful  of  practically  cold 
soup,  he  rose,  gracefully  disguised  a  yawn,  and  strolled 
away  to  an  Elysian  hall  in  which,  no  doubt,  liqueurs, 
coffee,  and  cigars  of  great  price  were  dispensed.  This 
was  not  for  me,  of  course. 

They  managed  somehow  to  make  my  bill  half  a  crown, 
and,  as  a  trifling  mark  of  my  esteem,  I  gave  the  waiter 
the  price  of  two  of  my  ordinary  dinners,  for  himself. 
I  badly  wanted  to  give  him  sixpence,  but  lacked  the 
requisite  moral  courage,  though  I  do  not  suppose  he 
would  have  wasted  a  thought  upon  it  either  way,  and  if 
he  had — but,  as  I  say,  I  gave  him  a  shilling.  After  all 
I  do  not  suppose  the  poor  fellow  earned  much  more  in  a 
day  than  I  earned  in  a  week.  And  then  (still  with 
prudent  thought  for  my  gouty  tendency,  no  doubt)  I 
loftily  waved  aside  all  suggestions  of  coffee  in  the  lounge, 
and  made  my  way  to  the  street,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
found  luncheon  a  rather  annoying  interruption  in  his 
management  of  great  affairs. 

'  Now  if  you  had  as  much  enterprise  and  resourceful- 
ness as — as  a  bandicoot,'  I  told  myself,  passing  down  the 
Thames  Embankment,   '  you  would  have  entered  into 

conversation  with  A ,  and  by  this  time  he  would  be 

pressing  you  to  write  articles  for  him.  Instead  of  that, 
you  '11  have  to  content  yourself  with  dry  bread  to-night 
and  to-morrow,  my  friend.' 

But  I  did  not  altogether  regret  that  bread  and  soup 
luncheon,  after  all.  It  was  an  adventure  of  sorts,  and 
quite  a  streak  of  colour  in  its  way,  across  the  drab  back- 
ground of  South  Tottenham  days. 

There  were  times  when  the  spirit  of  revolt  filled  my 
very  soul,  and  all  life  seemed  black  or  red  in  my  eyes. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    231 

But  I  do  not  recall  any  day  of  panic  or  suggested  surrender. 
On  one  day  of  revolt,  when  I  told  myself  that  this  slum 
life  in  London  was  too  horrible  for  a  self-respecting  dingo, 
let  alone  a  man,  I  buttoned  up  my  coat  and  walked  with 
angry  haste  all  the  way  to  Epping  Forest.  In  that  noble 
breathing-place  I  raged  to  and  fro  under  trees  and  through 
scrub,  delighting  in  the  prickly  caress  of  brambles,  and 
pausing  in  breathless  ecstasy  to  watch  rabbits  at  play  in 
a  dim,  leafy  glade.  Fully  twelve  miles  I  must  have 
walked,  and  then,  healed  and  tamed,  but  somewhat 
faint  from  unwonted  exercise  and  wonted  lack  of  good 
food,  I  sat  down  in  a  little  arbour  and  wolfishly  devoured 
just  as  much  as  I  could  get  in  the  form  of  a  ninepenny 
tea.  I  fear  there  can  have  been  no  margin  of  profit  for 
the  good  woman  who  served  me. 

At  that  period  my  digestive  faculties  still  were  holding 
up  miraculously,  or  my  sufferings  on  the  homeward 
tramp  would  have  been  acute.  As  a  fact  I  reached  home 
in  rare  spirits,  and  almost — so  cheery  was  I — cancelled 
the  notice  I  had  given  that  morning  of  my  intention  to 
vacate  the  current  garret.  But  the  smell  of  the  house 
smiting  my  forest  freshness  as  I  stepped  over  the  boards, 
jammed  in  its  threshold  to  keep  crawling  children  in, 
saved  me  from  that  indiscretion.  There  were  fewer 
drunkards,  less  fighting,  and  not  many  more  insects  in 
that  house  than  in  most  of  my  places  of  residence  ;  but 
the  smell  of  it  I  shall  never,  never  forget.  In  that  respect 
it  was  the  vilest  in  a  vile  scries  of  slum  dwellings,  and 
many  and  many  a  time  had  caused  me  to  revile  my 
naturally  keen  olfactory  organs.  I  had  endured  it  for 
almost  a  month,  and  would  suffer  its  unmanning  horrors 
no  more.  Indeed.  I  would  suffer  nothing  like  it  again. 
Why  should  I  ?  My  earnings  were  increasing.  I  would 
escape  from  the  whole  district,  its  miseries,  its  smells, 
its  infamies,  and  its  thousand  drhumanising  degradations. 
I  would  emigrate. 

Yes,   that  tramp  in  Epping  Forest  was  quite  epoch- 


232  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

making.  It  came  after  more  than  two  years  of  struggle 
in  London.  I  had  made  fully  five  pounds  in  the  past 
month.  I  had  actually  laid  aside  a  couple  of  sovereigns, 
and  doubtless  that  salient  fact  emboldened  me.  Also, 
I  had  had  a  number  of  quite  meaty  meals  of  late.  But 
the  wild  stamping  to  and  fro  under  trees,  the  sight  of  the 
bonny,  white-sterned  rabbits  at  play,  the  copious  tea  in 
a  pleached  arbour,  the  clean  forest  air — these  I  am  sure 
had  been  as  a  fiery  stimulant  to  my  drooping  manhood. 
I  went  to  bed  full  of  the  most  reckless  resolves,  and 
astonishingly  light-hearted. 

In  the  morning,  having  feasted  (as  well  as  the  pre- 
vailing smell  permitted)  upon  an  apple,  brown  bread,  and 
tea — butter  was  '  off  '  that  day,  I  remember — I  set  forth 
upon  a  prospecting  tour,  working  westward  from  my 
north-easterly  abode,  through  Holloway,  Finsbury,  the 
Camden  Road,  and  such  places,  into  the  neighbourhood 
of  Regent's  Park.  The  park,  which  was  strange  to  me, 
pleased  me  greatly  ;  as  did  also  certain  minor  streets 
in  its  neighbourhood,  a  mews  which  I  found  quaint  and 
quite  rural  in  its  suggestions,  and  sundry  white  houses 
with  green  shutters  which,  for  some  reason,  I  remember 
I  called  '  discreet.'  There  was  nothing  here  that  looked 
poor  enough  for  me,  but  none  the  less  I  inquired  at  one 
or  two  of  the  smaller  houses  whose  windows  held  cards 
indicating  that  rooms  were  to  let  in  them. 

At  length,  in  a  quiet  and  decent  thoroughfare  called 
Howard  Street,  I  happened  upon  Mrs.  Pelly's  house — 
No.  37.  The  girl  who  answered  my  knock  had  a  pleasant 
little  face,  and  a  soft,  kindly  tone  in  speaking.  I  supposed 
she  was  not  more  than  one-and-twenty,  perhaps  less. 
Her  mother  was  out,  she  said,  but  she  would  show  me 
the  only  vacant  room  they  had.  Indeed — with  a  little 
smile — she  really  did  more  for  the  lodgers  than  her 
mother  did. 

The  room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house  on  the  first 
floor,  and  there  was  but  one  other  floor  above  it.     It  had 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    238 

a  French  window,  with  a  tiny  iron  balcony,  three  feet  by 
eighteen  inches.  The  furnishings  were  greatly  superior 
to  any  I  had  had  in  London.  There  was  actually  a  little 
writing-table  with  drawers,  and  from  the  window  one 
could  see  distinctly  the  waving  green  tops  of  trees  in  the 
park.  The  rent  was  eleven  shillings.  Whereat  I  sighed 
heavily.  But  the  writing-table,  and,  above  all,  the 
actual  view  of  tree-tops  in  the  distance  !  I  sighed  again, 
and  explained  regretfully  that  I  feared  my  limit  was 
eight  shillings.  Then  the  young  woman  sighed  too, 
and  mentioned,  with  apparent  irrelevance,  that  her 
mother  might  be  in  any  moment  now. 

I  had  earned  five  pounds  in  the  previous  month. 
With  reasonable  care  my  food  need  not  cost  more  than 
seven  to  ten  shillings  a  week.  Of  course  I  had  managed 
on  considerably  less.  I  knew  very  well  that  that  sort 
of  semi-starvation  was  in  every  way  bad  ;  but,  when  I 
thought  of  that  quiet  back  room,  the  distant  tree-tops, 
the  absence  of  smells,  the  fact  that  I  had  seen  no  filthy  or 
drunken  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  soft-spoken  girl 
at  my  side — '  By  heavens  !    It 's  worth  it,'  I  said  to  myself. 

And  just  then — we  were  in  the  narrow  ground  floor 
passage — the  mother  arrived,  bringing  with  her  an  un- 
mistakable whiff  of  a  public-house  bar.  This  stiffened 
my  relaxing  prudence  considerably.  I  had  no  kindly 
feeling  left  for  taverns,  especially  where  women  were 
concerned.  But,  by  an  odd  chance,  it  happened  that 
Mrs.  Pelly  was  not  only  in  a  talkative  mood,  but  also  in 
higher  spirits  than  I  ever  saw  her  afterwards.  She 
insisted  on  rcinspection  of  the  room,  a  suffieiently 
dangerous  thing  in  itself  for  me.  And  then,  standing 
beside  its  open  window,  with  arms  folded  over  the  place 
in  which  her  waist  once  had  been,  she  avowed  that  she 
thought  the  room  would  suit  me,  and  that  I  should  suit 
the  room. 

4  There  'a  a  writing-table  in  it,  an'  all,  ye  see,'  she  said, 
having  received  a  hint  as  to  my  working  habits. 


234   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

There  was  indeed.  I  was  little  likely  to  forget  it. 
It  now  seemed  the  charge  for  the  room  was  eleven  shillings 
weekly,  without '  attendance.'  But  Mrs.  Pelly  had  never 
been  a  woman  to  stick  out  over  trifles,  that  she  hadn't ; 
and,  right  or  wrong,  though  she  hoped  she  might  never 
live  to  rue  the  day,  she  would  let  the  gentle^nan  this 
room  for  nine  shillings  a  week,  and  include  '  attendance  ' 
in  that  merely  nominal  rate — '  So  there,  Miss  !  '  This,  to 
her  daughter  Fanny,  and  in  apparent  forgetfulness  of 
my  presence. 

It  was  a  thrilling  moment  for  me,  standing  there  with 
one  hand  on  the  writing-table,  my  gaze  fixed  over  the 
scantily  covered  top  of  Mrs.  Pelly's  head — she  wore  no 
hat — upon  the  trees  in  the  distance.  Prudence  gabbled 
at  me  :  '  You  can't  afford  it.  You  must  eat.  You  '11 
be  sold  up,  and  serve  you  right.'  But,  of  course,  the 
table  and  the  window  won.  After  all,  had  I  not  earned 
five  pounds  in  the  past  month  ?  And,  excepting  boots, 
my  outfit  was  still  pretty  good  ! 

I  could  not  wait  for  Monday.  The  window  and  the 
table  pulled  too  hard.  So  I  installed  myself  at  No.  37 
on  the  Saturday  afternoon,  and  thanked  God  sincerely 
that  I  was  no  longer  in  a  slum. 

VII 

On  fine  mornings  I  used  to  leave  door  and  window 
blocked  open  in  my  room,  and  take  half  an  hour's  walk 
in  the  park  before  breakfast.  The  weather  was  some- 
times unkind,  of  course,  but  Fanny  never,  and  she  would 
neglect  the  rooms  of  other  lodgers  in  order  to  hasten 
the  straightening  of  mine.  The  other  lodgers  were  all 
folk  whose  business  took  them  away  from  Howard  Street 
as  soon  as  breakfast  was  dispatched,  and  kept  them  away 
till  evening. 

It  often  happened  that  I  would  work  at  my  little 
writing-table  until  the  small  hours  of  the  morning;  and 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    235 

in  such  cases,  more  often  than  not,  I  would  leave  the 
house  directly  after  breakfast,  walk  down  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  and  tack  through  Bloomsbury  to  Gray's 
Inn  and  Fleet  Street,  or  wherever  else  the  office  might 
lie  for  which  the  manuscript  I  carried  was  destined. 
Where  possible,  I  preferred  this  method  of  disposing  of 
manuscripts.  Not  only  did  it  save  stamps — a  consider- 
able item  with  me — but  it  seemed  quicker  and  safer  than 
the  post.  I  had  a  dishonest  little  formula  for  porters 
and  bell  boys  in  these  offices,  from  the  enunciation  of 
which  I  derived  a  comforting  sense  of  security  and 
dispatch. 

4  You  might  let  the  editor  have  this  directly  he  comes 
in,'  I  would  say  as  I  handed  over  my  envelope ; 
4  promised  for  to-day,  without  fail.' 

Well,  I  had  promised — myself.  And  this  little  formula, 
in  addition  to  making  for  prompt  delivery,  I  thought, 
gave  one  a  sense  of  actual  relationship  with  the  editor. 
Save  for  the  trifling  fact  that  the  manuscript  would, 
probably,  in  due  course  be  returned,  or  even  consigned 
to  the  waste-paper  basket,  my  method  seemed  to  put 
me  on  the  footing  of  one  who  had  written  a  commissioned 
article.  The  dramatic  value  of  the  formula  was  greatly 
enhanced  where  one  happened  to  know  the  editor's 
name,   and   could   say  in   a  tone  of  urgent  intimacy  : 

4  You  might  let  Mr.  have  this  directly  he  comes 

in,'  etc.  In  those  cases  one  walked  down  the  office 
stairway  humming  an  air.  It  was  next  door  to  being 
one  of  the  Olympians,  and  that  without  sacrificing 
one's  romantic  liberty  as  a  free-lance 

As  my  earnings  rose — and  they  did  rise  with  agreeable 
rapidity  after  my  establishment  in  Howard  Street — I 
wrote  less  and  thought  more.  I  also  walked  more,  and 
saw  more  of  London.  But  I  was  still  writing  a  great 
deal ;  more  probably  than  any  salaried  journalist  in  the 
town,  though  a  large  proportion  of  my  writings  never 
saw  the  light  of  print.     When  I  had  been  living  for  five 


236   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

or  six  months  in  Howard  Street,  my  earnings  were 
averaging  from  ten  pounds  to  fifteen  pounds  each  month. 
For  a  long  time  I  seemed  able  to  maintain  something  like 
this  average,  but  not  to  improve  upon  it.  It  may  be 
that  my  efforts  slackened  at  that  point,  and  that  I  gave 
more  time  to  reading  and  walking.  This  is  the  more 
likely,  because  I  know  I  felt  no  interest  whatever  in  the 
progress  of  the  account  I  opened  in  the  Post  Office  savings 
bank. 

It  was  about  this  time,  I  fancy,  though  only  in  my 
twenty-fourth  or  twenty-fifth  year,  that  I  began  seeking 
advice  from  chemists  and  their  assistants,  under  whose 
guidance  I  tapped  the  fascinating  but  deadly  field  of 
patent  medicines.  The  fact  was  I  had  completely  dis- 
organised my  digestive  system  during  two  years  and  more 
of  catering  for  myself  upon  an  average  outlay  of  six  or 
seven  shillings  weekly  (sometimes  much  less,  of  course), 
whilst  living  an  insanely  sedentary  life  in  which  the 
allowance  of  sleep,  exercise,  and  fresh  air  had  been  as 
inadequate  as  my  dietary.  A  wise  physician  might 
possibly  have  been  able  to  steer  me  into  smooth  waters 
now,  especially  if  he  had  driven  me  out  of  London.  But 
the  obstinate  energy  and  conceit  of  youth  was  still  strong 
in  my  veins.  I  had  no  money  to  waste  on  doctors,  I  told 
myself.  And  so  I  held  desultory  consultations  across 
the  counters  of  chemist's  shops,  and,  supremely  ignorant 
as  to  causes,  attacked  symptoms  with  trustful  energy, 
consuming  great  quantities  of  mostly  valueless  and 
frequently  harmful  nostrums. 

Another  step  I  took  at  this  time,  after  quaintly  earnest 
discussion  with  Fanny,  was  to  arrange  an  additional 
payment  of  eight  shillings  a  week  to  Mrs.  Pelly,  in  return 
for  the  provision  of  my  very  simple  breakfast  and  a  bread 
and  cheese  luncheon  each  day.  This  relieved  me  of  a 
task  for  which  I  had  never  had  much  patience,  and  very 
likely  it  was  also  an  economy.  My  evening  meal  I 
preferred,  as  a  general  thing,  to  obtain  elsewhere.     It  was 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    237 

one  of  my  few  entertainments  this  foraging  after  inex- 
pensive dinners,  and  watching  and  listening  to  other 
diners.  At  that  time  my  prejudices  were  the  exact 
antithesis  of  those  that  came  later  on,  and  I  preferred 
foreign  restaurants  and  foreign  service  and  cooking, 
quite  apart  from  the  fact  that  I  found  them  nearly  always 
cheaper  and  more  entertaining  than  the  native  varieties. 

It  was  in  a  dingy  little  French  eating-house  near 
Wardour  Street  (where  I  must  say  the  cooking  at  that 
time  really  was  skilful,  though  I  dare  say  the  material 
used  was  villainously  bad,  since  the  prices  charged  were 
low,  even  judged  by  my  scale  in  such  matters)  that  I 
first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Sidney  Heron.  I  felt 
sure  that  Heron  must  be  a  remarkable  man,  even  before 
I  spoke  to  him,  or  heard  him  speak,  for  he  lived  with  a 
monocle  fixed  in  his  right  eye,  and  never  moved  it,  even 
when  he  blew  his  nose  and  gesticulated  violently,  as  he 
so  often  did.  The  monocle  was  attached  to  a  broad 
black  ribbon  which,  in  some  way,  seemed  grotesque 
as  contrasted  with  the  dingy  greyish-white  flannel 
cricketing  shirts  which  Heron  always  wore,  with  a  red 
tie  under  the  collar.  Linen  in  any  guise  he  clearly  scorned. 
I  do  not  think  his  boots  were  ever  cleaned,  and  he  appeared 
to  spend  even  less  upon  clothing  than  I  did.  I  do  not 
know  just  how  he  disposed  of  his  money,  but  he  earned 
two  hundred  or  three  hundred  a  year  as  a  writer,  and  he 
was  invariably  short  of  funds.  I  think  it  quite  conceiv- 
able that  he  may  have  maintained  some  poor  relation  or 
relations,  but  in  all  the  years  of  our  acquaintance  I  never 
heard  him  mention  a  relative.  He  certainly  lived  poorly 
himself. 

Our  acquaintance  resulted  from  his  tipping  a  rum 
omelette  into  my  lap.  The  tables  at  this  little  restaurant 
were  exceptionally  narrow,  and  I  suppose  Heron  was 
exceptionally  cross,  even  for  him.  The  omelette  was 
burnt,  he  said,  and  after  pishing  and  tushing  over  it  for 
a  moment  or  two  he  shouted  to  the  overworked  waiter, 


238  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

giving  his  plate  so  angry  a  thrust  at  the  same  time  that 
it  collided  violently  with  mine,  and  the  offending  omelette 
ricochetted  into  my  lap. 

Heron's  apologies  indicated  far  more  of  anger  than 
contrition,  I  thought ;  but  they  led  to  conversation,  at 
all  events,  and  as  he  lived  in  the  Hampstead  Road 
we  walked  a  mile  or  more  together  after  leaving  the 
restaurant.  It  was  the  beginning  of  companionship  of  a 
sort  for  me,  and  if  we  did  not  ever  become  very  close 
friends,  at  all  events  our  intimacy  endured  without 
rupture  for  many  years. 

At  the  outset  I  was  given  an  inkling  of  the  irascibility 
of  his  temper,  and  my  subsequent  method,  in  all  our 
intercourse,  was  simply  to  leave  him  whenever  he  became 
quarrelsome,  and  to  take  up  our  relations  when  next  we 
met  at  the  point  immediately  preceding  that  at  which 
temper  had  overcome  him.  At  heart  an  honourable 
and  I  am  sure  kindly  man,  Heron  had  a  temper  of 
remarkable  susceptibility  to  irritation.  The  stomachic 
causes  which,  as  time  went  on,  produced  melancholy  and 
dense,  black  depression  in  me,  probably  accounted  for  his 
eruptions  of  violent  irascibility.  And  I  fancy  we  were 
equally  ignorant  and  brutal  in  our  treatment  of  our  own 
physical  weaknesses. 

Heron  certainly  became  one  of  my  distractions,  one 
of  my  human  interests  outside  work,  at  this  time.  But 
there  was  another,  and  the  other  came  closer  home  to  me. 

I  suppose  I  spent  seven  or  eight  months  in  discovering 
that  Mrs.  Pelly  was  a  singularly  unpleasant  woman. 
But  the  thing  did  eventually  become  plain  to  me,  so 
plain  indeed  that  it  would  have  caused  me  to  give  up  my 
French  window  and  writing-table  and  migrate  once  more, 
but  for  certain  considerations  outside  my  own  personal 
comfort.  That  Mrs.  Pelly  consumed  far  more  gin  than 
was  good  for  her  became  apparent  to  me  during  my  first 
week,  if  not  my  first  day,  in  Howard  Street.  But  as  she 
rarely  entered  my  room,  and  our  encounters  were  merely 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    239 

accidental  and  momentary,  this  weakness  would  never 
have  affected  me  much. 

What  did  affect  me  was  my  very  gradual  discovery  of 
the  fact  that  this  woman  treated  her  own  daughter  with 
systematic  cruelty — a  thing  happily  unusual  in  her  class, 
as  it  is  also,  I  think,  among  the  very  poor  of  London. 
At  the  end  of  eight  or  nine  months  my  increasing  know- 
ledge of  Mrs.  Pelly's  harsh  unkindness  to  Fanny  had 
begun  to  weigh  on  my  mind  a  good  deal.  It  was  a 
singular  case,  in  many  ways.  Here  was  a  girl,  a  young 
woman  rather,  in  her  twenty-first  year,  who  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  might  be  said  to  be  carrying  on 
with  her  own  hands  the  entire  work  of  a  house  which 
sheltered  five  lodgers ;  and,  as  a  fact,  it  was  rarely  that 
a  day  passed  without  her  suffering  actual  physical 
violence  at  the  hands  of  that  gin-soaked  termagant, 
her  mother. 

The  woman  positively  used  to  pinch  Fanny  in  such  a 
way  as  to  leave  blue  bruises  on  her  arm.  She  used  to 
pull  her  hair  violently,  slap  her  face,  and  strike  at  her 
with  any  sort  of  weapon  that  happened  to  be  within 
reach.  Further,  when  the  vicious  fit  took  her,  she  would 
lock  up  pantry  and  kitchen,  and  make  this  hard-working 
girl  go  hungry  to  bed  at  night,  by  way  of  punishment 
for  some  pretended  misdeed.  And  the  astounding  tiling 
was  that,  with  all  this  and  more,  Fanny  retained  a  very 
real  affection  for  her  unnatural  parent;  and  used  to 
plead  that,  but  for  the  effect  of  liquor  upon  her,  Mrs. 
Pelly  would  be  and  was  a  good  mother. 

It  appeared  that  Fanny  had  lost  her  father  when  she 
was  about  twelve  years  old,  and  ever  since  that  time  her 
mother's  extraordinary  attitude  towards  her  had  become 
increasingly  harsh  and  erucl.  She  never  had  a  penny 
of  her  own.  though  she  did  the  work  of  two  servants, 
and  her  clothes  were  mostly  home-made  make-shifts 
from  discarded  garments  of  her  mother's.  When 
necessity  caused  her  to  ask  for  new  boots,  for  example, 


240  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

the  penalty  would  be  perhaps  a  week  of  vile  abuse  and 
bullying,  of  slaps,  pinches,  docked  meals  and  other 
humiliations,  all  of  which  must  be  endured  before  the 
wretched  woman  would  buy  a  pair  of  the  cheapest  and 
ugliest  shoes  obtainable,  and  fling  them  to  her  daughter 
from  out  her  market  -  basket.  If  they  were  a  misfit, 
Fanny  would  have  to  suffer  them  as  best  she  could. 
Or,  in  other  cases,  new  shoes  would  be  refused  altogether, 
and  she  would  be  ordered  to  make  shift  with  a  pair  her 
mother  had  worn  out. 

It  was  only  very  gradually  that  I  came  to  know  these 
things.  Once,  when  I  knew  no  more  than  that  Fanny 
worked  very  hard  and  seldom  stirred  out  of  the  house, 
I  chanced  to  encounter  mother  and  daughter  together 
on  the  stairs  early  on  a  Sunday  evening.  The  girl  looked 
pinched  and  unhappy,  and  something  moved  me  to  make 
a  suggestion  I  should  hardly  have  ventured  upon  then, 
if  the  mother  had  not  happened  to  be  present. 

'  You  look  tired,  Fanny,'  I  said.  '  Why  not  come  out 
for  a  walk  in  the  park  with  me  ?  The  air  would  do  you 
good,  and  perhaps  you  will  have  a  bit  of  dinner  somewhere 
with  me  before  getting  back.  Do  !  It  would  be  quite 
a  charity  to  a  lonely  man.' 

I  saw  her  tired  brown  eyes  brighten  at  the  thought, 
and  then  she  turned  timidly  in  Mrs.  Pelly's  direction. 

'  Oh !  '  said  I,  on  a  rather  happy  inspiration,  '  I 
believe  you  're  one  of  the  vain  people  who  fancy  they  arc 
indispensable.  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Pelly  would  be  delighted 
for  you  to  come ;  wouldn't  you,  Mrs.  Pelly  ?  There  will 
be  no  lodgers  home  till  late  this  fine  evening.' 

Mrs.  Pelly  simpered  at  me,  with  a  rather  forbidding 
light  in  her  eye,  I  thought.  But  I  had  struck  the  right 
note  in  that  word  '  indispensable.' 

'  Oh,  she  's  very  welcome  to  go,  for  me,  Mr.  Freydon  ; 
and  I  'm  sure  it 's  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  her.  Girls 
nowadays  don't  do  so  much  when  they  are  at  work 
but  what  it 's  easy  enough  to  spare  'em.     But,  haven't 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    241 

you  got  a  tongue,  miss?     Why  don't  you   thank  Mr. 
Freydon  ?  ' 

4  No,  indeed,'  I  laughed.  '  The  thanks  are  coming 
from  me.  I  '11  just  go  back  to  my  room  and  write  a 
letter,  and  you  will  let  me  know  as  soon  as  you  're  ready, 
won't  you,  Fanny  ?  ' 

Well,  I  can  honestly  say  that  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  that 
little  outing.  I  thought  there  never  had  been  any  one 
who  was  so  easily  pleased  and  entertained.  Doubtless 
her  worshipful  attitude  flattered  my  youthful  vanity. 
But,  apart  from  this,  it  was  a  real  delight  to  see  the 
flush  of  enjoyment  come  and  go  in  her  pale,  pretty  face, 
when  we  rode  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  examined  flowers 
in  the  park,  and  sat  down  to  a  meal  with  the  preparation 
and  removal  of  which  she  was  to  have  no  concern  whatever. 
It  was  a  pretty  and  touching  sight,  I  say,  to  see  how 
these  very  simple  pleasures  delighted  her.  But  I  very 
soon  learned  that  this  experience  must  not  be  repeated. 
Indeed,  it  was  in  this  wise  that  I  obtained  my  first 
inklings  of  the  real  wretchedness  of  Fanny's  life.  She 
had  to  suffer  constant  humiliations  for  a  week  or  more, 
as  the  price  of  the  little  jaunt  she  had  with  me.  Her 
mother  found  it  hard  to  forget  or  forgive  the  fact  that  her 
daughter  had  had  an  hour  or  two  of  freedom  and  enjoy- 
ment.    Realisation  of  this  made  me  detest  the  woman. 

And  then,  it  may  have  been  three  months  after  this 
little  outing,  there  came  another  Sunday  incident  that 
moved  me.  I  returned  to  my  room  unexpectedly  about 
six  o'clock,  having  forgotten  to  take  out  with  me  a  certain 
paper.  The  house  was  very  silent,  and  perhaps  that  made 
me  walk  more  softly  than  usual  up  the  stairs.  As  I 
opened  my  door  the  warm,  yellow  light  of  the  setting 
sun  was  slanting  across  my  writing-table,  and  in  the 
chair  before  it  sat  Fanny,  reading  a  magazine. 

My  first  thought  was  of  irritation.  I  did  not  like  to 
see  any  one  sitting  at  my  writing-table.  I  was  touchy 
regarding  that  one  spot — the  table,  my  papers,  and  so 

Q 


242  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

forth.  In  the  same  instant  irritation  gave  place  to  some 
quite  other  feeling,  as  the  sunlight  showed  me  that  tears 
were  rolling  down  Fanny's  pale  face. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  in  great  confusion,  murmuring 
almost  passionate  apologies  in  her  habitually  soft,  small 
voice. 

*  Oh,  please  forgive  me,  Mr.  Freydon  !  I  know  it  was 
a  liberty.  Please  do  forgive  me.  I  will  never  do  it  again. 
Please  say  you  will  overlook  it,  and — and  not  tell  my 
mother.' 

She  unmistakably  shrank,  trembling,  almost  cowering 
before  me,  so  that  I  was  made  to  feel  a  dreadful  brute. 

'  My  dear  Fanny,'  I  said,  touching  her  arm  with  my 
fingers,  '  there  's  nothing  to  forgive.  How  absurd  !  I 
hope  you  will  always  sit  there  whenever  you  like.  As 
though  I  should  mind  !     But  what  were  you  reading  ?  ' 

The  question  had  no  point  for  me,  and  was  designed 
merely  to  relieve  the  tension. 

'  Oh,  your  story,  Mr.  Freydon.  It 's — it 's  too  beauti- 
ful. That  was  what  made  me  forget  where  I  was,  and  sit 
on  here.  I  just  glanced  at  it — like  ;  and  then — and  I 
couldn't  leave  it.     Oh  !  ' 

And  she  drew  up  her  apron  and  dabbed  her  eyes.  I 
don't  believe  the  poor  soul  possessed  a  handkerchief. 
Here  was  a  pretty  pass  then  !  I  had  forgotten  for  the 
moment  that  one  of  the  three  magazines  on  the  table 
contained  a  short  story  of  which,  upon  its  appearance, 
I  had  been  inordinately  proud.  I  was  young,  and  no 
one  else  flattered  me.  Literally  nobody  had  shared  my 
gratification  in  the  publication  of  this  story.  Here  was 
somebody  from  whom  it  drew  indubitable  tears  ;  some 
one  who  was  deeply  moved  by  its  beauty.  .  .  . 

I  patted  her  shoulder.  I  drew  confidences  from  her 
regarding  the  wretchedness  of  her  home  life.  I  laid 
down  emphatic  instructions  that  she  was  to  regard  my 
room  as  her  sanctuary ;  to  use  it  whenever  and  how- 
soever she  might  choose,  irrespective  of  my  presence  or 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    243 

absence.  I  bade  her  make  free  with  my  few  books — 
as  though  the  poor  soul  had  abundance  of  leisure — 
comforted  her  to  the  best  of  my  ability ;  and —  Yes, 
let  me  evade  nothing.  I  stroked  her  hair,  and  in  leaving 
her,  with  reiterated  instructions  to  remain  there  and 
rest,  I  touched  her  cool  white  cheek  with  my  lips,  and 
was  strangely  thrilled  by  the  touch. 

A  warm  wave  of  what  I  thought  pity  and  sympathy 
passed  over  me  as  I  walked  from  her. 

VIII 

It  is  rather  a  matter  of  regret  with  me  now  that  I 
never  kept  a  diary.  Mine  has  been  upon  the  whole  a 
somewhat  lonely  life,  and  lonely  men  often  do  keep 
diaries.  But,  in  my  case,  I  suppose  writing  was  too 
much  the  daily  business  of  life  to  permit  of  leisure  being 
given  to  the  same  task. 

However,  the  dates  of  certain  volumes  of  short  stories, 
which  appeared  long  ago  with  my  name  upon  their 
covers,  are  for  me  evidence  that,  after  the  first  six  months 
of  my  stay  in  Howard  Strict,  my  work  began  to  tend 
more  and  more  towards  fiction,  and  away  from  news- 
paper articles.  My  dealings  at  this  time  brought  me  more 
closely  into  touch  with  magazines  than  with  newspapers. 
I  became  more  concerned  with  human  emotions  and 
character,  but  especially  with  emotions,  than  with  those 
more  abstract  or  again  more  matter-of-fact  themes 
which  had  served  me  in  the  writing  of  newspaper  articles. 

This  may  have  helped  me  in  some  ways,  since  it  meant 
that  my  name  was  fairly  frequently  seen  in  print  now. 
But  the  point  I  have  in  mind  is,  that  I  take  this  tendency 
in  my  work  to  have  been  an  indication  of  the  particular 
phase  of  character  development  through  which  I  was 
passing  at  the  time.  It  was  at  this  period  that  I  indulged 
myself  in  occasional  dreams  of  fame.  I  do  not  know 
that   my   conceit   made   me   offensive   in   any   way.     I 


244  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

hardly  think  it  went  so  far.  But,  in  my  inmost  heart, 
I  believe  I  judged  myself  to  be  a  creative  artist  of  note. 
I  certainly  had  a  lively  imagination,  a  good  deal  of 
fluency — too  much,  indeed — as  a  writer,  and  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  emotional  capacity  and  sympathy. 

Later  in  life  I  often  wondered,  not  without  depression, 
why  I  no  longer  seemed  able  to  move  people,  to  influence 
them  in  a  given  direction,  or  to  arouse  their  enthusiasm, 
with  the  same  facility  which  I  had  known  in  my  twenties. 
I  see  now  the  reasons  of  this.  My  emotional  capacity 
spent  itself  rapidly  in  writing  and  living ;  and  with  its 
exhaustion  (and  the  development  of  my  critical  faculties) 
came  an  attenuation,  a  drying  up,  so  to  say,  of  the 
quality  of  facile  emotional  sympathy,  which  in  earlier 
years  had  made  it  easy  for  me  to  attract,  prepossess,  or 
influence  people  at  will. 

Given  some  practical  organising  qualities  which  I 
certainly  did  not  possess,  I  apprehend  that  at  this  period 
I  might  have  engineered  myself  into  a  considerable  vogue 
of  popularity  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  A  little  later  I  might 
almost  have  slid  into  the  same  position,  even  in  the 
absence  of  the  practical  qualities  aforesaid,  but  for  the 
trend  of  circumstances  which  then  became  highly  antagon- 
istic to  that  sort  of  development. 

But  I  note  with  some  interest  that  the  stories  I  took 
to  writing  at  this  period  were  highly  emotional  in  tone, 
and  somewhat  exotic  in  their  setting.  The  exotic  settings 
may  have  been  due  in  part  to  the  fact  that  I  had  travelled, 
and  yet  more  I  fancy  to  revulsion  from  the  material 
background  of  my  early  life  in  London.  And  the 
emotionalism  must  be  attributed,  I  apprehend,  in  part 
to  my  age  and  temperament,  and  in  part  to  my  com- 
parative solitude. 

I  find  it  extremely  difficult  justly  to  appraise  or  analyse 
my  relations  with  Fanny.  In  one  mood  I  see  merely 
youth,  folly,  vanity,  and  romantic  emotionalism,  directing 
my  conduct ;    and  again  I  fancy  I  discern  some  loftier 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    245 

motive,  such  as  sincerely  chivalrous  generosity,  humanity, 
unselfish  desire  to  help  and  uplift,  etc.  Doubtless,  in 
this  as  in  most  matters,  a  variety  of  motives  and  influ- 
ences played  their  part  in  shaping  one's  conduct.  Single 
and  entirely  unmixed  motives  are  much  more  rare  than 
most  people  believe,  I  fancy.  Pride  and  vanity  have  a 
way  of  dogging  generosity's  footsteps  very  closely  ;  stead- 
fast endurance  and  selfish  obstinacy  are  nearly  related ; 
and  I  dare  say  real  kindness  of  heart  often  has  a  place 
where  we  most  of  us  see  only  reckless  self-indulgence. 

I  remember  very  well  a  cold,  clear  moonlight  night 
in  the  Hampstcad  Road,  when  reaction  from  solitary 
reflection  made  mc  unbosom  myself  a  good  deal  to  Sidney 
Heron,  in  the  form  of  seeking  his  advice.  On  previous 
occasions  I  had  told  him  something  of  Fanny  and  her 
dismal  position,  and  he  had  seen  her  once  or  twice  at 
my  lodging. 

4  H'm  !     Yes.     Precisely.     So  I  inferred.' 

It  was  with  such  ejaculations,  rather  sardonic  in  tone, 
I  thought,  that  he  listened  to  me  as  we  walked. 

1  Well,  what  shall  I  do  ?  '  I  said  at  length  as  we 
reached  his  gate. 

4  What  will  you  do  ?  '  he  echoed.  4  Well,  my  friend, 
since  you  are  an  inspired  ass,  and  a  confirmed  senti- 
mentalist, I  imagine  you ' 

4  What  would  you  advise  in  the  circumstances,  I  mean?' 
I  interpolated  hurriedly. 

4  My  advice.  Oh,  that 's  another  matter  altogether, 
and  of  absolutely  no  value.' 

'  But,  on  the  contrary,  you  are  older  than  I.' 

4  I  am  indeed — centuries.' 

4  And  your  advice  should  be  very  helpful  to  mc.' 

4  So  it  should.  Hut  it  won't  be,  because  you  won't 
follow  it.' 

4  How  can  you  know  that  ?  ' 

4  From  my  knowledge  of  human  nature,  sir  ;  and,  in 
particular,  my  observation  of  your  sub-species.' 


246  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

'  Try  me,  anyhow.' 

'  Very  well.  Change  your  lodging  to-morrow,  and 
never  set  foot  in  Howard  Street  again.  There  's  my 
advice,  and  it 's  the  best  you  '11  ever  get — and  the  last 
you  'd  ever  think  of  following.  Give  me  a  cigarette  if 
you  want  to  continue  this  perfectly  useless  conversation.' 

'  But,  my  dear  Heron,  I  'm  anxious  to  do  the  wisest 
thing ' 

'  Not  you  !  ' 

'  But  consider  the  plight  of  that  poor  girl.' 

'  Oh,  come  !  This  opens  new  ground.  I  thought  I 
was  engaged  to  advise  you.' 

'  Certainly.  But  in  relation  to — to  what  we  've  been 
talking  about.' 

'  H'm !  In  relation,  you  mean,  to  Fanny  Pelly  ? 
Phcebus,  what  a  name  !  I  wonder  if  you  know  what 
you  mean,  Freydon  !  Let 's  assume  you  mean  having 
equal  regard  to  your  own  interests  and  those  of  your 
gin-drinking  landlady's  daughter.     Hey  ?  ' 

'  Well,  yes.  Always  remembering,  of  course,  that  I  am 
only  a  man,  and  she ' 

*  Oh,  Lord  !  Excuse  me.  Yes  ;  you  are  only  a  man, 
as  you  so  truly  say  ;  and  she  is — your  landlady's  daughter. 
Well,  well,  upon  the  whole,  and  giving  her  interests  a 
fair  show,  I  think  my  advice  would  be  precisely  the  same 
— clear  out  to-morrow.' 

'  And  what  about  her  future  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  man,  am  I  a  reasoning  human  being,  or  a 
novelette-reading  jelly-fish  ?  Did  I  not  say  that  having 
regard  to  the  interests  of  both,  that  is  my  advice  ?  Kindly 
credit  me  with  the  modicum  of  intelligence  required  for 
adequate  consideration  of  both  sides.  It  isn't  an  inter- 
national complication,  you  know  ;  neither  is  it  a  situation 
entirely  without  precedent  in  history.  But,  mind  you, 
I  'm  perfectly  well  aware  that  no  advice,  however  good, 
is  ever  of  any  practical  use  ;  least  of  all  in  circumstances 
of    this   order.     It   does,    I   believe,    occasionally   impel 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    247 

its  victim  in  the  direction  opposite  to  the  one  indicated. 
Yes,  and  especially  in  such  cases.  Well,  my  friend,  upon 
reconsideration  then,  my  advice  is  that  first  thing  to- 
morrow morning  you  proceed  to  Doctors'  Commons, 
wherever  and  whatever  that  may  be,  procure  a  special 
licence,  and  marry  the  girl.  Only — don't  you  dare  to 
ask  me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it.' 

The  suggestion  has  a  fantastic  look,  but  I  am  more 
than  half  inclined  to  think  Heron's  final  piece  of  advice 
did  have  its  bearing  upon  my  subsequent  actions.  For 
it  started  a  train  of  thought  in  my  mind  regarding 
marriage.  It  gave  a  practical  shape  to  mere  vague 
imaginings.  It  set  me  looking  into  details.  For  example, 
I  distinctly  remember  murmuring  to  myself  as  I  turned 
the  corner  of  Heron's  street : 

'  Yes,  after  all,  I  suppose  getting  married  is  quite  a 
simple  job,  really.  There  are  registrar's  offices,  aren't 
there  ?  I  suppose  it 's  pretty  well  as  simple,  really,  as 
getting  a  new  coat.' 

How  Heron  would  have  grinned  if  he  had  been  able 
to  follow  this  soliloquy  ! 

Fanny  was  on  her  knees  before  my  hearth  when  I 
reached  my  room.  The  lamp  burned  clear  and  soft 
beside  my  blotting-pad.  The  fire  glowed  cheerily,  and 
Fanny  had  just  swept  tin-  hearth,  so  that  no  speck  showed 
upon  it.  And  my  slippers  were  in  the  fender.  Less  than  a 
year  earlier  my  homecomings  had  been  singularly  different; 
a  dark,  cold  room  in  a  malodorous  house,  with  very 
possibly  a  drunken  couple  brawling  on  the  landing  outside. 

But  there  were  tears  in  Fanny's  eyes.  The  mother  was 
in  one  of  her  vicious  tempers,  it  seemed,  and  had  gone 
to  bed  in  her  basement  room  with  the  keys  of  larder  and 
kitchen,  and  a  bottle  of  gin.  The  daughter's  last  meal 
had  been  whatever  she  could  get  for  midday  dinner. 
And  it  was  now  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

4  Just  you  wait  there.  Don't  stir  from  where  you  arc. 
I  '11  be  back  in  three  minutes,'  I  told  her. 


248  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

There  was  a  ham  and  beef  shop  at  the  junction  of 
Howard  and  Albany  Street.  Thither  I  hastened.  Leav- 
ing this  convenient  repository  of  ready-cooked  comestibles, 
I  bethought  me  of  the  question  of  something  to  drink. 
I  was  bent  on  doing  this  thing  well,  according  to  my 
lights.  Presently  I  reached  my  room  again,  armed  with 
pressed  beef,  cold  chicken,  bread,  butter,  mustard,  salt, 
plates,  cutlery,  a  segment  of  vividly  yellow  cake,  and, 
crowning  triumph,  a  half  bottle  of  Macon. 

The  Dickensian  tradition  rather  suggests  that  the  ripe 
experience  of  a  middle-aged  bon  vivant  is  desirable  in  the 
host  at  such  occasions.  Well,  in  that  master's  time  youth 
may  have  lasted  longer  in  life  than  it  does  with  us.  My 
own  notion  is  that  mine  was  the  ideal  age  for  such  a  part. 
I  think  of  that  little  supper — Fanny's  tremulous  sips 
of  Burgundy  from  my  wash-stand  tumbler,  the  warm 
flush  in  her  pale  cheeks,  and  the  sparkle  in  her  brown 
eyes — as  crystallising  a  good  deal  of  the  phase  in  which 
I  was  living  just  then.  I  am  quite  sure  I  did  it  well, 
very  well. 

In  buying  those  viands  I  knew  I  should  keenly  enjoy 
our  little  supper.  I  pictured  very  clearly  how  delightful 
it  would  all  seem  to  poor  Fanny ;  her  flushed  enjoyment ; 
just  what  a  rare  treat  the  whole  episode  would  be  for  her. 
I  knew  how  pleasantly  that  spectacle  would  thrill  me. 
I  thought  too,  in  a  way,  what  a  devilish  romantic  chap 
I  was,  rushing  out  at  night  to  purchase  supper — and 
Burgundy ;  that  was  important ;  claret  would  not  have 
served — for  a  forlorn  and  unhappy  girl,  who,  but  for 
my  resourcefulness,  would  have  gone  starving  to  bed. 
How  oddly  mixed  the  motives  !  The  Burgundy,  now ; 
I  believed  it  a  more  generous  and  feeding  wine  than  any 
other.  Also,  for  some  reason,  it  was  for  me  a  more 
romantic  wine  ;  more  closely  associated  with,  say,  the 
Three  Musketeers  and  with  Burgundian  Denys,  comrade 
of  Reade's  Gerard. 

I  quite  genuinely  wanted  to  help  Fanny,  to  do  her 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    249 

good,  to  brighten  her  dull  life.  The  contemplation  of 
her  pleasure  gave  me  what  some  would  call  the  most 
unselfish  delight.  Withal,  as  I  say,  how  oddly  various 
are  one's  motive  springs,  especially  in  youth  !  And,  in 
some  respects,  what  a  blind  young  fool  I  was  !  That 
wine,  now.  .  .  .  Who  knows  ?  .  .  .  I  took  but  a  sip 
or  two,  for  ceremony's  sake,  and  insisted  on  fragile 
Fanny  finishing  the  half  bottle.  And  I  kissed  her  lips, 
not  her  cheek,  as  I  held  the  lamp  high  to  light  her  on  her 
way  to  the  garret  where  she  slept. 

I  have  not  the  smallest  desire  to  make  excuses  for 
such  foolishness  as  I  displayed,  at  this  or  any  other 
period.  But  I  think  it  just  to  remind  myself  that  there 
arc  worse  things  than  foolishness,  and  that  my  relations 
with  Fanny  might  conceivably  have  formed  a  darker 
page  for  me  to  look  back  upon  than  they  actually  did 
form.  We  both  were  young,  both  lonely ;  neither  of 
us  had  found  much  tenderness  in  life,  and  I — I  was 
passing  through  an  extremely  emotional  phase  of  life, 
as  my  work  of  that  period  clearly  shows. 

Within  a  month  of  that  evening  of  the  supper  in  my 
room,  Fanny  and  I  were  married  in  a  registrar's  office  in 
St.  Pancras,  and  set  up  housekeeping  in  one  tiny  bed- 
room and  a  sitting-room  in  Camden  Town.  I  had  con- 
vinced Fanny  that  this  was  the  only  way  out  of  her 
troubles,  and  goodness  knows  I  believed  it.  Heron 
refused  point  blank  to  witness  the  ceremony,  such  as  it 
but  he  shared  our  table  at  his  favourite  little 
French  restaurant  that  evening,  and  even  consented  to 
prolong  the  festive  occasion  by  spending  a  further  hour 
with  us  in  our  new  quarters. 

I  think  Fanny  was  pretty  much  preoccupied  in  wonder- 
ing what  her  mother  would  make  of  the  joint  note  we  had 
left  for  her.  (I  had  removed  all  my  belongings  from 
No.  37  several  days  before.)  But  I  thought  she  made 
a  pretty  little  figure  as  a  bride — gentle,  clinging,  tender, 


250  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

and  no  more  than  agreeably  shy.  And  Heron,  what  a 
revelation  to  me  his  manner  was !  Throughout  the 
evening  there  appeared  not  one  faintest  hint  of  his 
habitual  acidulated  brusqueness.  Not  one  sharp  word 
did  he  speak  that  night,  and  his  manner  toward  my  wife 
was  the  perfection  of  gentle  and  considerate  courtesy. 
I  was  dumbfounded  and  deeply  moved  by  his  really 
startling  behaviour.  He  was  so  incredibly  gentle.  His 
parting  words,  such  words  as  I  had  never  thought  to  hear 
upon  his  lips,  were  : 

'  Heaven  bless  you  both  ! '  And  then,  as  I  could  have 
sworn,  with  moisture  in  his  eyes,  he  added  :  '  You  are 
both  good  souls,  and — after  all,  some  are  happy  ! ' 

For  so  convinced  and  angry  a  cynic  and  pessimist, 
his  behaviour  had  been  remarkable.  When  I  returned  to 
Fanny  she  was  admiring  her  pretty,  new,  dove-coloured 
frock  in  the  fly-blown  mirror  of  our  sitting-room.  Poor 
child,  her  experience  of  new  frocks  had  not  been  extensive. 

'  He  's  a  real  gentleman,  is  Mr.  Heron,'  she  said  with 
a  little  welcoming  smile  to  me.  I  liked  the  smile  ;  but, 
almost  for  the  first  time  1  think,  on  that  day  at  all 
events,  her  words  jarred  on  me  a  little.  But  what  jarred 
more  perhaps  was  the  fact  that  these  words,  so  appar- 
ently innocent  and  harmless,  sent  a  vagrant  thought 
through  my  mind  that  filled  me  with  harsh  self-contempt. 
The  thought  will  doubtless  appear  even  more  paltry  than 
it  was  if  put  into  words,  but  it  was  something  to  the 
effect  that —  Of  course,  Heron  was  a  gentleman  !  Why 
else  would  he  be  a  friend  of  mine  ? 

Perhaps  the  thought  was  hardly  so  absurd  as  my 
solemn  self-contempt  over  it !  .  .  . 

IX 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that,  in  its  early  days  at 
all  events,  and  before  the  more  serious  trouble  arose, 
our  married  life  might  have  been  a  little  brighter  if  we 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    251 

had  quarrelled  occasionally.  It  would  perhaps  have 
shown  a  more  agreeable  disposition  in  me.  But  we  did 
not  quarrel.  I  felt,  and  probably  showed,  displeasure  and 
dissatisfaction  ;  and  Fanny —  But  how  shall  I  presume 
to  tell  what  Fanny  felt  ?  She  showed  occasional  tears, 
and  what  I  grew  to  think  rather  frequent  sulks  and 
peevishness. 

Our  first  difficulties  began  within  a  day  or  two  of 
our  marriage.  Chief  among  them  I  would  place  what  I 
regarded  as  my  wife's  altogether  unaccountable  and  quite 
unreasonable  determination  to  keep  up  relations  with 
her  mother.  I  thought  I  was  unfairly  treated  here,  and 
I  made  no  allowance  for  filial  feelings,  or  the  influence  of 
Fanny's  life-long  tutelage.  I  only  saw  that  she  had  very 
gladly  allowed  me  to  rescue  her  from  the  tyranny  of 
a  spiteful,  gin-drinking,  old  woman  ;  and  that,  within 
forty-eight  hours,  she  was  for  visiting  her  mother  as  a 
regular  thing,  and  even  proposed  that  I  should  join 
her  in  this. 

That  was  one  of  the  early  difficulties  ;  and  another, 
more  distressing  in  its  way,  was  my  discovery  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  apparently  impossible  for  me  to  think 
consecutively,  or  to  write  when  I  had  thought,  in  a  room 
which  was  my  wife's  living  place.  It  was  strange  that 
I  should  never  have  given  a  thought  before  marriage  to 
a  practical  point  so  intimately  touehing  my  peace  of  mind 
and  means  of  livelihood. 

At  present  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that  I  could  possibly 
afford  to  rent  another  room.  I  certainly  was  not  pre- 
pared to  banish  Fanny  to  our  tiny  bedroom,  separated 
from  the  other  room  by  folding  doors.  She  had  no 
notion  as  yet  that  her  presence  or  doings  constituted 
any  sort  of  interruption  in  my  work.  The  change  from 
carrying  on  the  whole  work  of  a  lodging-house  to  living 
in  lodgings  with  practically  no  domestic  work  to  do  was 
one  which,  in  my  foolish  ignorance,  I  had  thought  would 
prove  immensely  beneficial  to  overworked  Fanny.     As 


252   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

a  fact  I  think  it  bored  her  terribly  after  the  first  week. 
She  sometimes  liked  to  read,  but  never,  I  think,  for  more 
than  half  an  hour  at  a  stretch.  She  never  wrote  a 
letter,  and  did  not  care  for  thinking. 

I  have  found  very  few  people  in  any  class  of  life  who 
like  to  sit  and  think ;  very  few,  even  among  educated 
people,  who  showed  any  sympathy  or  comprehension  in 
the  matter  of  my  own  lifelong  desire  for  leisure  in  which 
to  think.  To  do  this  or  that,  yes  ;  but  just  to  think  ! 
That  seems  to  be  a  lamentable  and  most  boring  kind  of 
futility,  as  most  folk  see  it.  It  has  for  many  years 
figured  as  the  most  desirable  thing  in  life  to  me. 

Looking  back  upon  my  married  life,  I  believe  I  may 
say  with  truth  that  for  two  years  I  did  not  relax  in  my 
sincere  efforts  to  make  it  a  success.  It  would  be  more 
exact  perhaps  to  say  that  for  one  year  I  tried  hard  to 
make  it  a  success,  and  for  another  year  I  tried  hard  to 
make  it  tolerable.  Yes,  I  did  my  best  through  that 
period,  though  my  efforts  were  quite  unsuccessful.  I 
realise  that  this  does  not  justify  or  excuse  the  fact  that, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  I  then  gave  up  trying.  In 
that,  of  course,  I  was  to  blame  ;  very  much  to  blame. 
Well,  I  did  not  go  unpunished. 

It  would  not  be  easy  for  a  literary  man  who  had  never 
tried  it  to  understand  what  it  means  to  live  practically 
in  one  room  (with  a  sleeping  cubicle  opening  out  of  it) 
with  a  woman.  I  suppose  a  woman  would  never  forgive 
or  see  much  excuse  for  the  man  who  makes  a  failure  of 
married  life.  I  wonder  how  it  would  strike  a  literary 
woman  if  she  tried  life  in  these  circumstances  with  an 
unliterary  man  who,  whilst  clinging  to  leisure  and  having 
no  inclination  to  forfeit  an  hour  of  it  in  a  day,  yet  was 
bored  extremely  from  lack  of  occupation  and  resource. 

The  horrid  intimacy  of  urban  life  for  all  poor  and 
needy  people  must  be  very  wearing.  Its  lack  of  privacy 
is  most  distressing.  But  this  becomes  enormously 
aggravated,  of  course,  where  the  bread-winner  must  do 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    253 

his  work  within  the  walls  of  the  cramped  home.  And 
that  aggravation  of  difficulties  is  multiplied  tenfold  if 
the  bread-winner's  work  must  not  only  be  done  inside 
the  home,  but  must  also  be  the  product  of  sustained  and 
concentrated  thought ;  if  it  be  work  of  that  sort  which 
lends  itself  readily  to  interruption,  in  which  a  moment's 
break  may  mean  an  hour's  delay,  and  an  hour's  delay 
may  mean  for  the  worker  a  fit  of  hot  disgust  in  which 
his  unfinished  task  finds  its  way  into  fireplace  or  waste- 
paper  basket. 

The  year  which  I  gave  to  trying  to  make  a  success  of 
our  married  life  appears  to  me  in  the  retrospect  as  a 
monotonous  series  of  abortive  honeymoons,  separated  by 
interludes  of  terribly  hard  and  unfruitful  labour  for  me 
(more  exhausting  than  any  long  sustained  working  effort 
I  ever  made),  throughout  which,  out  of  respect  for  my 
praiseworthy  resolutions  as  a  would-be  good  husband, 
my  exacerbated  temper  was  cloaked  in  a  sort  of  waxy 
fixative,  even  as  some  men  discipline  their  moustaches. 
I  see  myself  in  these  periods  as  a  man  acutely  tired, 
miserably  conscious  of  the  barren  nature  of  his  exhausting 
daily  toil,  and  wearing  a  horrible  set  smile  of  connubial 
amiability  ;  the  sort  of  smile  which,  in  time,  produces 
a  kind  of  facial  cramp. 

My  wife,  poor  little  soul,  was  not,  I  think,  burdened  by 
any  self-imposed  task  touching  the  set  of  her  lips.  And 
it  may  be  this  was  so  much  the  worse  for  her.  In  the 
absence  of  any  recognised  duty  she  knew  of  no  dis- 
traction save  her  visits  to  her  mother,  regarding  which 
she  felt  a  certain  furtiveness  to  be  necessary,  by  reason 
of  my  ill-judged  show  of  impatience  in  this  matter,  and 
my  refusal  to  open  my  own  arms  to  the  woman  who, 
for  years,  had  made  Fanny's  life  a  burden  to  her. 

4  Confound  it !  '  I  thought.  4  My  part  was  to  release 
her  from  this  harridan's  clutches,  not  to  go  round  and 
mix  tears  and  gin  with  the  woman.' 

But  I  was  wrong.     I  should  have  gone  much  farther, 


254   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

or  not  near  so  far.  (How  often  that  has  been  my  fault !) 
Either  I  should  have  prevented  those  visits,  or  sterilised 
them  by  taking  part  in  them. 

By  the  time  that  a  spell  of  the  set  smile  and  the  barren 
labours  had  brought  me  near  to  breaking  point,  Fanny 
would  be  frequently  tearful  and  desperately  peevish 
from  her  boredom,  and  from  poor  health  ;  for  I  fancy 
she  was  in  little  better  case  than  I  as  regards  the  penalties 
of  a  faulty  and  inadequate  dietary,  combined  with  long 
confinement  within  doors.  These  conditions  would  pro- 
duce in  me  a  day  or  two  (and  a  sleepless  night  or  two) 
of  black,  dyspeptic  melancholy,  and  quite  hopeless 
depression.  Then,  as  like  as  not,  I  would  try  a  long 
tramp,  probably  in  Epping  Forest,  and  after  that — another 
abortive  honeymoon.  In  other  words,  full  of  wise 
resolutions  and  determined  hopefulness,  I  would  apply 
the  fixative  to  my  domestic  circle  smile  and  amiability, 
and  make  an  entirely  fresh  start,  with  a  little  jaunt  of 
some  kind  as  a  send  off. 

I  fancy  Fanny's  faith  in  these  foredoomed  attempts 
remained  permanently  unsullied.  I  know  she  used  to 
resolve  to  discontinue  the  long  gossipy  afternoons  with 
her  mother  in  Howard  Street — in  some  mysterious  way 
the  mother  had  lain  aside  all  her  old  pretensions  as  a 
tyrannical  autocrat,  and  they  met  now,  I  gathered,  as 
friendly  gossips — and  to  become  an  ideal  wife  for  a 
literary  man.  She  would  even  tell  our  landlady  not  to 
clean  or  tidy  our  rooms  any  more,  since  she,  Fanny, 
intended  to  do  this  in  future.  And  she  would  do  it — for 
a  week  or  so  ;  just  as  I  would  keep  up  my  sickening  grin, 
and  the  attempt  to  make  myself  believe  that  I  really 
liked  doing  my  work  in  public  libraries,  reading-rooms, 
waiting-rooms,  and  other  such  inspiring  places.  Not 
even  on  the  first  day  of  a  new  honeymoon  could  I  force 
myself  to  fancy  I  liked  the  attempt  to  work  in  our  joint 
sitting-room.     That  affected  me  like  a  neuralgia. 

The  point,  and  perhaps  the  only  point  I  can  make 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    255 

in  extenuation  of  my  admitted  failure  to  conduct  my 
married  life  to  a  successful  issue,  I  have  made  already ; 
for  one  year  I  did,  according  to  my  poor  lights,  strive 
consistently  and  hard  for  success.  Throughout  another 
year  I  did  strive  as  hardly,  and  almost  equally  consis- 
tently to  make  our  joint  life  tolerable  for  us  both.  More 
than  that  I  cannot  claim,  and,  in  the  light  of  all  that 
happened,  I  feel  that  this  much  is  rather  pitifully  little. 

X 

It  may  very  well  be  that  during  the  first  years  after  my 
marriage  some  of  the  chickens  I  had  hatched  out  in  the 
preceding  years  of  slum  life  and  incessant  scribbling 
came  home  to  roost.  In  the  case  of  my  reckless  sins 
against  hygiene  and  my  digestion,  I  know  they  did. 
But  also,  I  fancy,  as  touching  work,  and  its  monetary 
reward  ;  for  my  earnings  increased  somewhat,  while  my 
work  suffered  deterioration,  both  in  quality  and  quantity. 

If  it  had  not  chanced  to  reach  me  in  the  black  fit  which 
preceded  one  of  my  make-believe  new  honeymoons,  I 
should  doubtless  have  been  a  good  deal  more  elated 
than  I  was  by  the  letter  I  received  from  Mr.  Sylvanus 
Creed,  the  well-known  connoisseur  and  arbiter  of  literary 
taste,  who  presided  over  the  fortunes  of  the  publishing 
house  that  bore  his  name.  This  letter — written  with 
distinction  and  a  quill  pen  upon  beautifully  embossed 
deckle-edged  paper,  which  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  subtle 
perfume  about  it — requested  the  pleasure  of  my  com- 
pany at  luncheon  with  the  great  Sylvanus ;  the  place  his 
favourite  club — the  Court,  in  Piccadilly. 

He  received  me  with  beautiful  urbanity,  if  a  thought 
languidly.  It  was  clearly  a  point  of  honour  with  him 
to  refer  to  nothing  so  prosaic  as  any  kind  of  work  until  he 
had  plied  me  with  the  best  which  his  luxurious  club  had 
to  offer ;  and  I  gladly  record  that  our  luncheon  was  by 
far  the  most  ambitious  meal  I  had  ever  made,  or  even 


256   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

dreamed  of,  up  to  that  day.  And  then,  over  the  delicate 
Havannahs  and  fragrant  coffee  and  liqueurs — the  enter- 
prise of  youth  was  still  mine  in  these  matters,  and  in 
those  days  I  accepted  any  such  delicacies  as  the  gods 
sent  my  way  with  never  a  thought  of  question,  or  of 
consequence — I  was  informed,  with  truly  regal  com- 
plaisance, that  a  certain  bundle  of  manuscript  short 
stories  of  mine  (which  by  this  time  had  been  the  round  of 
quite  a  number  of  publishers'  readers  without  making 
any  perceptible  progress  towards  germination  and  print) 
had  been  chosen  for  the  honour  of  inclusion  in  the  new 
Fin  de  siecle  Library  of  Fiction,  which,  as  all  the  world 
knows — or  knew,  at  all  events,  during  that  season — 
represented  the  last  word,  both  in  literary  excellence  and 
artistic  publishing. 

I  was  perhaps  less  overpowered  than  I  might,  and  no 
doubt  ought  to  have  been,  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  I 
had  at  least  been  shrewd  enough  to  know  in  advance  that 
it  was  hardly  for  my  bright  eyes  the  famous  publisher 
was  entertaining  me.  However,  I  assumed  a  decent 
amount  of  ecstasy,  and  was  genuinely  glad  of  the  prospect 
of  seeing  my  first  book  handsomely  published.  After  a 
proper  interval  I  ventured  upon  a  delicate  inquiry  as  to 
terms  ;  whereupon  the  deprecatoiy  wave  of  Sylvanus 
Creed's  white  and  jewelled  hand  made  me  feel  (or  pretend 
to  feel)  a  low  fellow  for  my  pains.  I  gathered  that  on  our 
return  to  the  sumptuously  appointed  studio  from  which 
my  host  directed  the  destinies  of  his  publishing  house, 
one  of  his  secretaries  of  state  would  submit  to  me  a 
specimen  of  the  regulation  agreement  for  the  publication 
of  first  books. 

That  airy  mention  of  '  first  books  '  caused  a  chill  pre- 
sentiment to  pierce  the  ambrosial  fumes  by  which  I  was 
surrounded.  The  transaction  was  to  bring  me  no  par- 
ticular profit,  I  thought.  Well,  the  luncheon  had  been 
superfine.  The  format  of  Sylvanus  Creed's  books  was 
indubitably  pleasing  to  hand  and  eye.     And,  true  enough, 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    257 

it  was  a  '  first  book.'  Money,  after  all — and  particularly 
after  such  a  luncheon  .  .  . 

But  I  will  say  that  in  subsequently  signing  the  daintily 
embossed  agreement  (subtly  perfumed,  I  thought,  like 
the  letter  paper)  I  was  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  it  also  gave  Mr.  Sylvanus  Creed  my  second  book, 
whatever  that  might  prove  to  be,  upon  the  same  exiguous 
terms.  The  fault  was  wholly  mine,  of  course.  There  was 
the  agreement  (in  the  most  elegant  sort  of  copper-plate 
script)  quite  open  for  my  perusal.  I  fancy,  perhaps,  the 
Court  Club's  liqueurs  were  even  more  agreeably  potent 
than  its  wines.  I  know  it  seemed  absurdly  curmudgeonly 
that  I  should  think  of  wading  through  the  document, 
and  while  Sylvanus's  own  fair  hand  held  a  pen  waiting 
for  me,  too.  And,  indeed,  I  do  not  in  the  least  grudge 
that  signature  now. 

And  thus,  with  every  circumstance  of  artistic  fitness  and 
ease,  I  was  committed  to  authorship.  The  second  floor 
back  in  Camden  Town  looked  a  shade  dingy  after  my 
publisher's  sanctum  ;  but  I  carried  a  couple  of  gift 
copies  of  the  Fin  de  siecle  books  in  my  hand,  and  my  own 
effusions  were  to  form  the  fifth  volume  of  the  series. 
With  such  news  I  clearly  was  justified  in  bidding  Sidney 
Heron  take  his  dinner  with  us  that  night.  Fanny  rather 
cooled  about  the  great  event,  when  its  monetary  insignifi- 
cance was  made  partially  clear  to  her.  But  she  enjoyed 
the  little  dinner  with  Heron  ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
wc  were  doing  rather  well  in  the  monetary  way  just  then, 
though  hardly  well  enough  to  enable  me  to  rent  a  third 
room  for  use  as  study. 

I  found  that  sovereigns  had  somehow  shrunken  and 
lost  much  of  their  magic  in  Fanny's  hands  with  the 
passage  of  time.  At  the  time  <»f  our  marriage,  I  had 
been  agreeably  surprised  to  learn  that  Fanny  was  a 
cleverer  economist  than  I.  with  all  my  grim  learning  in 
South  Tottenham.  The  few  pounds  I  was  able  to  give 
her  on  the  eve  of  our  marriage  had  been  made  to  work 


258   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

miracles  I  thought.  But  lately  it  had  seemed  a  little 
different.  Fanny  had,  of  course,  changed  in  many  small 
ways;  and  one  result,  as  I  gathered,  was  that  our 
sovereigns  had  become  less  powerful.  Their  purchasing 
power  was  notably  reduced,  it  seemed.  Fortunately,  I 
was  earning  more.  But  it  was  clear  the  increase  in  my 
earnings  would  not  as  yet  permit  of  any  increase  in  our 
expenditure  upon  rent.  Sometimes  in  the  Cimmerian 
intervals  immediately  preceding  one  of  our  fresh  starts, 
my  reflections  upon  such  a  point  were  very  bitter.  There 
was  no  sort  of  doubt  that  the  quality  of  my  work 
was  suffering  seriously  from  lack  of  a  private  work- 
shop. .  .  . 

On  the  day  my  second  book  was  published — the  first, 
while  favourably  reviewed,  had  not  precisely  taken  the 
world  by  storm  ;  its  successor  was  my  first  novel — I  had 
said  that  I  should  not  get  back  to  our  rooms  before  about 
seven  o'clock,  in  time  for  the  evening  meal.  A  dizzy 
headache,  combined  with  a  series  of  interruptions  in  the 
public  reading-room  where  I  had  been  at  work,  brought 
me  to  Camden  Town  between  four  and  five,  determined 
to  take  a  couple  of  hours'  rest,  to  sleep  if  possible  on  our 
bed.  It  happened  that  I  met  our  landlady  on  the  steps 
of  the  house,  and  asked  her  casually  if  my  wife  had 
returned  yet.  Fanny  had  said  in  the  morning  that 
she  had  promised  to  go  and  see  her  mother  that  day. 
The  landlady  looked  at  me  a  little  oddly,  I  thought. 
Her  reply  was  normal,  and,  characteristically  enough, 
more  wordy  than  informing  : 

'  Oh,  I  couldn't  sye,  Mr.  Fr'ydon  ;  I  reely  couldn't  sye. 
I  know  Mrs.  Fr'ydon  went  art  early  this  mornin',  because 
she  'appened  to  speak  to  me  in  passin',  an'  she  said  she 
was  goin'  to  see  'er  mother,  "  Oh,  are  yer  ?  "  I  says. 
"  An'  I  'ope  you  '11  find  'er  well,"  I  says.' 

I  passed  on  indoors  and  upstairs,  thinking  dizzily  about 
Cockney  dialect — I  had  the  worst  kind  of  dyspeptic 
headache — and  feeling  rather  glad  my  wife  was  away. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    259 

4  An  hour's  sleep  will  set  me  right,'  I  muttered  to  myself 
as  I  entered  our  tiny  bedroom. 

But  Fanny  was  lying  on  the  bed,  fully  dressed,  even  to 
her  hat,  and  with  muddy  boots.  She  was  maundering 
over  to  herself  the  silly  words  of  some  inane  song  of  the 
day.  She  was  horribly  flushed,  and —  But  let  me 
make  an  end  of  it.  My  wife  was  grossly  and  quite  un- 
mistakably drunk,  and  the  stuffy  little  room  reeked  of 
gin. 

As  it  happened  I  never  had  been  drunk.  It  was  not 
one  of  my  weaknesses.  But  if  it  had  been,  I  dare  say  I 
should  have  been  no  whit  the  less  horrified  and  alarmed 
and  disgusted  by  this  lamentable  spectacle  of  my  wife — 
stupid,  maundering,  helpless,  and  looking  like  .  .  .  But 
I  need  not  labour  the  point. 

In  a  flash  I  recalled  a  host  of  tiny  incidents.  It  was 
extraordinary  how  recollection  of  the  series  rattled  through 
my  aching  brain  like  bullets  from  a  machine  gun. 

4  This  has  been  going  on  for  some  time,'  I  thought. 
And  then,  4 1  suppose  this  is  hereditary.'  And  then, 
4  This  comes  of  the  visits  to  Howard  Street.'  And  then, 
curiously,  recollection  of  those  wedding  night  words  of 
Heron's  which  had  so  touched  me  :  4  Heaven  bless  you  ! 
You  are  both  good  souls,  and — after  all,  some  arc  happy  !  ' 

4  Perhaps  some  are,'  I  thought  bitterly.  4  I  wonder 
how  much  chance  there  is  for  us  !  ' 

In  just  the  same  way  that  I  think  the  beginning  of  our 
married  life  might  have  been  more  agreeable,  less  strained, 
if  we  had  had  occasional  quarrels,  so  I  dare  say  at  this 
critical  juncture,  when  I  discovered  that  my  wife  had 
taken  to  drinking  gin,  my  right  cue  would  have  been  that 
of  open  anger,  or,  at  all  events,  of  very  serious  remon- 
strance. It  is  easy  to  be  wise  after  the  event.  I  did  not 
seem  to  be  capable  just  then  of  talk  or  remonstrance. 
All  I  did  actually  say  was  commonplace  and  unhelpful 
enough.      I    aid  as  I  remember  very  well  : 

4  Good  God,  Fanny  !     I  never  thought  to  sec  you  in 


260   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

this    state.'     And    then — the    futility    of    it — I    added, 
4  You  'd  better  take  your  hat  and  boots  off.' 

With  that  I  walked  into  the  sitting-room,  closing  the 
dividing  door  after  me,  and  subsided,  utterly  despondent, 
into  the  chair  beside  the  empty  grate.  A  man  could 
hardly  have  been  more  wretched  ;  but  after  a  minute  or 
two  I  could  not  help  noticing,  as  something  singular, 
the  fact  that  my  sick,  dizzy  headache  had  disappeared. 
The  pain  had  been  horridly  severe,  or  I  should  hardly 
have  noticed  its  cessation.  But  now,  with  my  spirits  at 
their  lowest  and  blackest,  my  head  was  clear  again ;  not 
by  a  gradual  recovery,  but  in  one  minute. 

XI 

Fanny  had  spoken  no  word  to  me,  and  I  wondered 
greatly  at  that.  She  had  only  smiled  and  laughed  in  a 
foolish  way.  And  a  few  minutes  later  I  knew  by  her 
breathing — even  through  the  closed  doors,  so  much  was 
unmistakable — that  she  slept. 

I  may  have  sat  there  for  an  hour,  nursing  the  bitterest 
kind  of  reflections.  Then  I  decided  to  go  out,  and  found 
I  had  left  my  hat  in  the  bedroom.  Very  cautiously  I 
opened  one  leaf  of  the  folding  doors,  tip-toed  into  the 
small  room,  and  took  my  hat  from  the  chair  on  which  it 
lay.  My  gaze  fell  for  one  instant  across  the  recumbent 
figure  of  my  wife,  and  was  withdrawn  sharply.  I  went 
out  with  anger  and  revulsion  in  my  heart,  and  walked 
rather  quickly  for  an  hour,  conscious  of  no  relief  from 
bitterness,  no  softening  of  my  feelings. 

Then  I  happened  to  pass  a  familiar  restaurant,  and 
told  myself  I  would  have  some  dinner.  '  She  must  go 
her  own  way,'  I  muttered  savagely. 

I  entered  the  place,  found  a  seat,  and  consulted  the 
bill  of  fare.  A  greasily  smiling  Italian  came  to  take 
my  order. 

'  Madame  is  not  wiz  you,  sare  ?  '  the  fellow  said. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    261 

We  had  not  been  there  for  a  month,  but  he  remembered  ; 
and,  on  the  instant,  I  recalled  our  last  visit — the  beginning 
of  one  of  our  fresh  starts.  And  this  was  the  end  of  it. 
Well! 

Suddenly  I  found  myself  reaching  for  my  hat. 

4  No,'  I  said, '  madam  is  late.     I  will  go  and  look  for  her.' 

And  out  I  went.  In  that  moment  I  had  seen  pictures : 
Fanny,  before  our  marriage,  on  her  knees  at  my  hearth 
in  the  room  in  Howard  Street ;  in  her  dove-coloured 
frock  on  our  marriage  night,  clinging  to  my  arm  when 
she  was  fresh  from  the  excitement  of  leaving  Howard 
Street.  There  were  other  scenes.  What  an  immature 
and  helpless  child  she  was  !  And  how  much  help  had 
I  given  her  ?  After  all,  food  and  clothing  and  so  forth, 
freedom  from  tyranny — well,  these  were  not  everything. 
She  needed  more  intimate  care  and  guidance.  The 
responsibility  was  mine. 

In  the  end  I  went  to  a  shop  and  bought  the  materials 
for  a  meal,  even  as  on  an  evening  which  seemed  very 
long  ago,  when  I  had  given  her  supper  in  my  bedroom. 
Only,  on  this  occasion,  with  a  sigh  which  contained  con- 
siderable self-reproach,  I  omitted  Burgundy,  or  any 
equivalent  thereto.  We  had  the  wherewithal  for  brewing 
tea  in  our  rooms.  And  so,  earning  a  supper  for  us  both, 
I  returned  to  the  lodging.  And  there  was  Fanny  on  her 
knees  before  the  hearth  in  the  sitting-room,  just  as  she 
had  been  on  that  previous  occasion.  And  now  she  was 
crying.  Her  nerveless  fingers  held  no  brush.  The 
hearth  was  far  from  speckless,  and  the  grate  held  only 
dead  grey  ashes,  and  some  scraps  of  torn  paper — my  own 
wasted  manuscript. 

Fanny  was  weeping,  weakly  and  quietly.  She  knew, 
then.  She  had  not  forgotten  that  I  had  seen  her.  But 
her  hair  had  been  brushed.  She  wore  a  different  gown. 
She  looked  shrinkingly  and  fearfully  up  at  me  as  I  came  in. 

*  You  better,  little  woman  ?  '  I  said  as  I  began  to  put 
down  my  parcels.     I  had  tried  hard  to  make  the  words 


262   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

sound  careless  and  normal,  kindly  and  cheerful.  But  I 
thought  as  I  heard  them  that  a  man  with  a  quinsy  might 
have  managed  a  better  tone. 

In  another  moment  she  was  clinging  to  me  somehow, 
without  having  risen  to  her  feet,  and  sobbing  out  an 
incoherent  expression  of  her  penitence  and  shame.  I 
was  tremendously  moved.  And,  while  seeking  to  con- 
sole her,  my  real  sympathy  for  this  sobbing  child  was 
shot  through  and  illumined  by  the  most  fatuous  sort  of 
optimism. 

1 1  've  been  making  a  tragedy  out  of  a  disagreeable 
mishap,'  I  told  myself.  '  She  is  only  a  child  who  has 
made  herself  ill.  The  thing  won't  happen  again,  one 
may  be  sure.  This  is  a  lesson  she  will  never  forget.  No 
one  could  possibly  mistake  the  genuineness  of  all  this.' 
By  which  I  meant  her  heaving  shoulders,  streaming  eyes, 
and  penitent  self-abasement. 

In  the  process  of  soothing  her,  of  course,  I  made  light 
of  her  self-confessed  baseness.  I  suppose  I  spent  at 
least  half  an  hour  in  comforting  her.  Then  we  supped, 
with  a  hint  of  April  gaiety  towards  the  end.  I  endea- 
voured to  be  humorous  in  a  lover  -like  way.  Fanny 
dabbed  her  eyes,  smiled,  and  choked,  and  even  laughed 
a  little.  But  the  vows,  protestations,  resolves  for  the 
future — these  were  all  most  solemn  and  impressive. 

And  they  all  held  good,  too, — for  a  week  and  a  half. 
And  then  our  landlady  gave  me  notice,  because  in  the 
broad  light  of  mid-afternoon  Fanny  had  stumbled  over 
the  front  door-mat  on  entering  the  house,  and  lain  there, 
laughing  and  singing ;  she  had  refused  to  move,  and 
had  had  to  be  dragged  upstairs  for  appearance's  sake. 

The  landlady  must  have  occupied  ten  minutes,  I  think, 
in  giving  me  notice.  Almost,  I  could  have  struck  the 
poor  soul  before  she  was  through  with  it.  When  at 
length  she  drew  breath,  and  allowed  me  to  escape,  I 
thought  her  Cockney  dialect  the  basest  and  vilest  ever 
evolved  among  the  tongues  of  mankind.     Yet  the  good 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    263 

woman  was  really  very  civil,  and  rather  kindly  disposed 
towards  me  than  otherwise,  I  think.  There  was  no  good 
reason  why  I  should  have  felt  bitter  towards  her.  Rather, 
perhaps,  I  should  have  been  apologetic.  And  it  was 
clean  contrary  to  my  nature  and  disposition,  this  savage 
bitterness.  But  one  of  the  curses  of  squalor  is  that  it 
exacerbates  the  mildest  temper,  corrodes  and  embitters 
every  one  it  touches. 

On  the  third  morning  after  our  instalment  in  new 
lodgings — two  almost  exactly  similar  rooms,  a  little 
farther  away  from  Mrs.  Pelly  and  Howard  Street,  in  a 
turning  off  the  lower  Hampstead  Road — I  received  a 
letter,  forwarded  on  from  our  first  lodging,  from  Arncliffe, 
the  editor  to  whom,  some  four  years  before  this  time,  I 
had  taken  a  letter  of  introduction.  At  intervals  Arn- 
cliffe had  accepted  and  published  quite  a  number  of 
articles  from  my  pen,  but  we  had  not  again  met,  unless 
one  counts  the  occasion  upon  which  I  followed  him  into 
an  expensive  restaurant  at  luncheon  time,  on  the  off- 
chance  of  being  noticed  by  him.     The  letter  ran  thus  : 

4  Dear  Mr.  Freydon, — As  you  are  probably  aware, 
I  am  now  in  the  chair  of  the  Advocate,  and  a  pretty 
uneasy  seat  I  find  it,  so  far.  It  occurs  to  me  that 
we  might  be  able  to  do  something  for  each  other. 
Will  you  give  me  a  call  here  between  three  and  four 
one  afternoon  this  week,  if  you  are  not  too  busy. — 
Yours  sincerely,  Henry  Arncliffe.' 

The  letter  gave  me  rather  a  thrill.  Sylvanus  Creed 
had  published  two  books  of  mine,  and  my  work  had 
recently  appeared  in  several  of  the  leading  journals. 
But  the  Adiwate  was  certainly  one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
famous  of  London's  daily  newspapers — I  vaguely  recalled 
having  read  somewhere  that  it  had  changed  its  pro- 
prietors during  the  past  week  or  so — and  I  had  never 
before  received  a  summons  from  the  editor  of  such  a 
journal.     Fanny    had    a    headache   and    was   cross    that 


264  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

morning ;  but  I  told  her  of  the  letter,  and  explained  that 
it  might  easily  mean  some  increase  in  my  earnings. 

*  If  he  would  commission  me  for  a  series  of  articles, 
we  might  afford  to  take  a  room  on  the  next  floor  for  me 
to  work  in,'  I  said  rather  selfishly  perhaps. 

*  Groceries  seem  to  be  dearer  every  week,'  said  Fanny, 
1  and  Mrs.  Heaps  charges  sevenpence  for  every  scuttle  of 
coal.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  price.  Mother  never  charges 
more  than  sixpence,  no  matter  if  coal  goes  up  ever  so.' 

This  touched  a  sore  spot  between  us.  It  seemed  Mrs. 
Pelly  had  two  rooms  empty,  and  Fanny  did  not  find  it 
easy  to  forgive  me  for  my  refusal  to  go  and  live  in  Howard 
Street. 

If  Arncliffe  found  his  editorial  chair  an  uneasy  seat, 
it  was  not  the  chair's  fault.  A  more  dignified  and  withal 
more  ingeniously  contrived  and  padded  resting-place  for 
mortal  limbs  I  never  saw.  And  the  editorial  apartment, 
how  spacious,  silent,  and  admirably  adapted,  in  the 
dignity  of  its  lines  and  furnishings,  for  the  reception  of 
Cabinet  Ministers,  and  the  excogitation  of  thunderbolts 
for  the  chancelleries  of  Europe  !  It  was  currently  reported 
in  Fleet  Street  that  Lord  Beaconsfield  had  been  particu- 
larly familiar  with  the  interior  of  that  apartment. 

I  found  the  great  man  in  cheerful  spirits,  and  looking 
fresher  than  ordinary  mortals,  I  suppose  because  his  day 
had  only  just  begun.  From  him  I  learned  how,  some 
eight  days  previously,  the  Advocate  had  been  purchased, 
lock,  stock,  and  barrel  (from  the  family  whose  members 
had  inherited  possession  of  it),  by  Sir  William  Bartram,  M.P. , 
head  of  the  great  engineering  and  contracting  firm  which 
bore  his  name.  It  seemed  Sir  William  had  been  advised 
by  a  very  great  statesman  indeed  to  secure  the  editorial 
services  of  Mr.  Arncliffe ;  and  he  had  managed  to  do  it 
in  forty-eight  hours  by  dint  of  the  exercise  of  a  certain 
amount  of  political  and  social  influence  in  various  quarters, 
and  by  entering  into  a  contract  which,  for  some  years, 
at  all  events,  would  make  Arncliffe  a  tolerably  rich  man. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    265 

A  good  deal  was  left  to  my  imagination,  of  course.  It 
was  assumed,  very  kindly,  that  I  understood  the  relations 
existing  between  this  nobleman  and  the  other,  as  touching 
Sir  William's  precise  influence  and  sphere  in  the  world  of 
politics.     Naturally,  when  the  Party  Whip  heard  so  and 

so,  he  went  to  Mr. ,  and  the  result,  of  course,  was 

pressure  from  Lord ,  which  settled  the  matter  in  five 

minutes.  I  nodded  very  intelligently  at  intervals,  to 
show  my  recognition  of  the  inevitableness  of  it  all ;  and 
so  an  end  was  reached  of  that  stage  in  our  conversation. 

In  the  slight  pause  which  followed  Arncliffe  touched  a 
spring  releasing  the  door  of  a  cabinet  apparently  designed 
to  hold  State  Papers  of  the  highest  importance,  and  dis- 
closed some  beautiful  boxes  of  cigars  and  other  creature 
comforts.  It  became  clear  to  me,  as  I  thanked  Arncliffe 
for  the  match  he  handed  me,  that  he  must  have  forgotten 
the  first  impressions  he  had  formed  of  me  some  years 
earlier.  Perhaps  he  had  confused  me  in  his  mind  with 
some  other  more  important  and  affluent  person.  And 
yet  he  did  remember  some  of  my  articles.  His  remarks 
proved  that.  I  wondered  if  he  could  also  remember  that 
they  had  reached  him,  some  of  them,  from  South  Totten- 
ham. Probably  not.  And,  if  he  did,  his  editorial  omni- 
science could  hardly  have  given  him  knowledge  of  any 
of  my  slum  garrets.  On  the  other  hand,  he  clearly 
assumed  that  I  was  familiar  with  the  life  of  the  House  of 
Commons  and  the  clubs  of  London,  if  not  with  that  of  the 
other  august  and  crimson-benched  Chamber. 

4  You   know   L ,'   he   said,   casually   mentioning  a 

leader  in  literary  journalism  so  prominent  that  I  could 
not  but  be  familiar  with  his  reputation. 

1  By  name,  of  course,'  I  agreed. 

*  Ah  !     To  be  sure.     And  T ,  and  R ,  and,  I 

think,  J ;  yes,  I  've  got  'cm  all.    So  we  ought  to  make 

the  Advocate  move  things  along,  if  the  most  brilliant 
staff  in  London  can  accomplish  it.' 

I    nodded    sympathetically,    and    presently    gathered 


266  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

that  over  and  above  all  this  the  kindly  and  intimate 
relations  subsisting  between  Arncliffe  and  the  principal 
occupants  of  the  Treasury  Bench  (not  to  mention  a  certain 
moiety  of  influence  which  might  conceivably  be  exercised 
by  the  new  proprietor,  Sir  William)  were  such  as  to  ensure 
brilliant  success  and  greatly  increased  prestige  to  the 
Advocate,  under  the  new  regime. 

All  this  was  very  pleasant  hearing,  of  course,  and  at 
suitable  intervals  I  offered  congratulatory  movements 
of  the  head  and  eyebrows,  with  murmured  ejaculations 
to  similar  effect.  But,  as  touching  myself  and  my 
obscure  problems  (of  which  such  an  Olympian  as  Arn- 
cliffe could,  naturally,  have  no  conception),  it  was  all 
somewhat  insubstantial  and  remote  ;  rather  of  the  stuff 
of  which  dreams  are  compounded.  And  so,  watching 
my  opportunity,  I  presently  ventured  a  tentative  inquiry 
as  to  the  direction  in  which  I  might  hope  to  justify  the 
terms  of  Mr.  Arncliffe's  letter,  and  be  of  any  service. 

'  Oh !  Well,  of  course,  that 's  for  you  to  say,'  said  the 
editor,  with  a  suggestion  of  having  been  suddenly  curbed 
in  full  career.  '  I  may  be  quite  wrong  in  supposing 
such  things  would  have  any  interest  for  you.  But  I — I 
have  followed — er — your  work,  you  know  ;  followed  your 
work  and,  in  fact,  it  struck  me  you  might  like  to  join  us 
here,  you  know.  It  is  a  staff  worth  joining,  I  think,  and — 
But,  of  course,  you  are  the  best  judge  of  your  own  affairs.' 

'  It 's  extremely  kind  of  you,  extremely  kind.' 

'  Not  at  all.  I  think  you  could  do  good  work  for  the 
Advocate.' 

'There's  nothing  I'd  like  better.  But—  Do  I 
understand  that  you  mean  me  to  join  your  permanent 
staff,  and  come  and  work  here  in  the  building  every  day  ?  ' 

'  Why,  yes  ;  yes,  to  be  sure.' 

1 1  see.' 

It  meant  an  end  to  my  free-lancing  then.  But,  after 
all,  what  had  this  free-lancing  meant,  since  my  marriage  ? 
It  would  provide  a  place  to  work  in.     The  hours  might 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    267 

not  be  excessive.  The  pay  .  .  .  Fanny  was  for  ever 
talking  of  the  increase  in  prices.  My  earnings,  though 
on  the  up  grade,  had  seemed  very  insufficient  of  late. 
There  certainly  was  nothing  to  make  me  cling  to  our  home 
as  a  place  in  which  to  carry  on  my  work. 

1  And  in  the  matter  of  salary  ?  '  I  said,  as  who  should 
say  that  in  such  a  business  it  is  well  to  glance  at  even  the 
most  trivial  of  details. 

*  Ah  ! '  replied  Arncliffe.  c  Yes  ;  that 's  a  point  now, 
isn't  it  ?  You  see  the  fact  is  I  had  a  bit  of  a  scene  with 
the  business  side  here  yesterday.  We  are  new  to  each 
other  as  yet,  you  know — the  manager  and  myself.  But 
he  's  a  very  decent  fellow,  and  I  shall  soon  have  him 
properly  in  hand,  I  'm  sure  of  that.  Meantime,  of  course, 
I  have  been  rather  going  it,  you  know,  from  his  point  of 

view.     You  can't  get  L ,  and  T ,  and  R ,  for 

tuppence-ha'penny,  you  know.' 

'  No,  indeed,  that 's  true,'  said  I,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  had  tried  this  game  and  proved  its  impossibility. 

4  No.  And  so,  in  the  matter  of  pay  I  must  go  gently, 
you  know,  at  first.  I  must  ca'  canny  for  a  while.  I  shall 
be  able  to  make  things  all  right  a  little  later  on,  you  know, 
but  just  to  begin  with  I  'm  afraid  I  couldn't  manage 
more  than  three  or  four  hundred  a  year.' 

I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  mention  that  my  London 
record  so  far  was  little  more  than  half  the  lower  sum 
mentioned.  On  the  contrary,  I  pinched  my  chin  and 
said  :  '  Oh  !  '  rather  blankly,  and  without  really  knowing 
what  I  said,  or  why  I  said  it.  I  wanted  to  think,  as  a 
matter  of  fact.     But  what  I  said  was  well  enough. 

4  I  I'm  !  Yes,  I  sec  what  you  mean.  It  is  poor,  I 
know,'  said  Arncliffe,  in  his  quick,  burbling  way.  4  But, 
as  I  say,  I  should  hope  to  improve  it  a  little  later  on, 
you  know.  And,  meantime,  you  may  probably  continue 
to  earn  something  outside,  you  know  ;  so  that  two  or 
three  hundred — say  three  hundred — but  of  course  you  're 
the  best  judge.' 


268  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Perhaps  I  was.  I  wonder !  At  all  events,  my  mind 
was  made  up.  The  life  of  the  last  few  months  had  made 
it  clear  that  I  needed  more  money. 

1  Oh,  I  '11  be  very  glad,'  I  said.  '  By  the  way,  you  did 
mention  at  first  three  or  four,  not  two  or  three  hundred.' 

'  Did  I  ?     Ah  !     Well,  say  three  to  begin  with.' 

I  gathered  it  was  rather  difficult  for  the  real  Olympian 
to  think  at  all  in  figures  so  absurdly  low.  So  we  let  it  go 
at  that,  and,  this  being  a  Friday,  I  agreed  to  start  work 
at  the  office  on  the  following  Monday. 

'  I  shall  be  able  to  get  a  room  here,  shall  I  not  ?  '  I 
asked  with  some  anxiety. 

'  A  room  ?  Oh,  surely,  surely.  Yes,  yes,  that 's  all 
right.  Ask  for  me.  Come  and  see  me  before  doing 
anything,  and  I  '11  see  to  it.  So  glad  we  've  fixed  it. 
Good-bye !  ' 

And  so,  very  affably,  I  was  bowed  out  of  my  free-lance 
life,  the  which  I  had  entered  by  way  of  the  north-eastern 
slums. 

XII 

My  first  Monday  in  the  Advocate  office  was  not  a  pleasant 
day.  Arriving  there  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
I  learned  that  the  editor  was  never  expected  before  three 
in  the  afternoon.  I  knew  no  other  person  in  the  building, 
and  so  no  place  was  open  to  me  except  the  waiting-room. 
However,  I  whiled  away  the  morning  in  that  apartment 
by  making  a  pretty  thorough  study  of  a  file  of  the  Advocate, 
in  the  course  of  which  I  took  notes  and  made  memoranda 
of  suggestions  which  would  have  kept  an  editor  busy  for 
a  week  or  two  had  he  acted  upon  one  half  of  them. 

The  time  thus  spent  was  far  from  wasted,  since  it  gave 
me  more  of  an  insight  into  current  politics  (as  reflected 
in  the  pages  of  this  particular  organ)  than  I  had  obtained 
during  my  whole  life  in  England  up  till  then,  and  it  gave 
me  a  thorough  grasp  of  the  policy  of  the  Advocate.  After 
a  somewhat  Barmecidal  feast  in  a  Fleet  Street  eating- 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    269 

house  (domestic  expenditure  left  me  very  short  of  funds 
at  this  time),  I  returned  to  my  post  and  wrote  a  political 
leading  article  which  I  ventured  to  think  at  least  the 
equal  in  persuasive  force  and  profundity  of  anything  I 
had  read  that  morning.  At  three  o'clock  precisely,  my 
name,  written  on  a  slip  of  paper,  was  placed  on  the 
editorial  table.  There  were  then  nine  other  people  in  the 
waiting-room.  At  four  I  began  a  second  leading  article, 
which  was  finished  at  half-past  five.  At  a  quarter  to  six 
the  manuscript  of  both  effusions  was  sent  in  to  the  editor. 
At  a  quarter  to  seven  inquiry  elicited  the  information  that 
the  editor  had  left  the  building  almost  an  hour  since,  with 
Sir  William  Bartram,  after  a  crowded  afternoon  which 
had  brought  disappointment  to  many  beside  myself  who 
had  wished  to  see  him. 

Unused  as  I  was  now  to  salary  earning  I  felt  uneasy. 
It  seemed  to  me  rather  dreadful  that  any  institution 
should  be  mulcted  to  the  extent  of  a  guinea  in  the  day, 
by  way  of  payment  to  a  man  who  spent  that  day  in 
a  waiting-room.  I  looked  anxiously  for  my  leading 
articles  next  morning.  But,  no  ;  the  editorial  space  was 
occupied  by  other  (much  less  edifying)  contributions  upon 
topics  which  had  not  occurred  to  me.  During  that 
morning  I  began  to  fancy  that  the  very  bell-boys  were 
suspicious,  and  might  be  contemplating  the  desirability 
of  laying  a  complaint  against  me  for  not  earning  my 
princely  salary. 

However,  at  a  few  minutes  after  three  o'clock,  I  was 
escorted  by  the  head  messenger — who  had  rather  the  air 
of  a  seneschal  or  chamberlain — to  the  editorial  apart- 
ment, where  I  found  Arncliffc  giving  audience  to  his  news 
editor,  Mr.  Pink,  and  one  of  his  leader-writers,  a  very 
old  Advocate  identity,  Mr.  Samuel  Harbottlc — a  white- 
whiskered  and  rubicund  gentleman,  who  was  entitled 
to  use  most  of  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  after  his*name 
should  he  so  choose.  I  was  presented  to  both  these 
gentlemen,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  took  their  departure. 


270   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

'  Poor  old  Harbottle !  '  said  Arncliffe,  when  the  door 
had  closed  behind  the  leader-writer.  '  An  able  man,  mind 
you,  in  his  prehistoric  way  ;  but —  Well,  he  can  hardly 
expect  to  live  our  pace,  you  know.  He  has  had  a  very 
fair  innings.  Still,  we  must  move  gradually.  The  change 
has  to  be  made,  but  we  don't  want  to  upset  these 
patriarchs  more  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  Have  a 
cigar  ?  Sure  ?  Well,  I  dare  say  you  're  right.  I  '11 
have  a  cigarette.  Sorry  I  couldn't  see  you  yesterday. 
Now  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  tackle  for  me, 
first  of  all :  Correspondence.' 

For  a  moment  I  had  a  vision  of  almost  forgotten  days 
in  Sussex  Street,  Sydney  :  '  Dear  Mr.  Gubbins, — With 
regard  to  your  last  consignment  of  butter,'  etc. 

'  The  correspondence  of  this  paper  has  been  disgracefully 
neglected.  And,  mind  you,  that 's  a  serious  mistake. 
Nothing  people  like  better  than  seeing  their  names  in  the 
paper.  They  make  their  relatives  read  it,  and  for  each 
time  you  print  their  rubbish,  they  '11  be  content  to  scan 
your  every  column  for  a  fortnight.  I  mean  to  do  it 
properly.  We  '11  give  two  or  three  columns  a  day  to  our 
Letters  to  the  Editor.  But,  the  point  is,  they  must  be 
handled  intelligently,  both  with  regard  to  which  letters 
should  be  used  and  which  should  not ;  and  also  in  the 
matter  of  condensation.  We  can't  let  'em  ramble 
indefinitely,  or  they  'd  fill  the  paper.  Now  that 's  what 
I  want  you  to  tackle  for  me  for  a  start.  I  can't  possibly 
get  time  to  wade  through  them  myself ;  but  if  you  once 
get  the  thing  licked  into  proper  shape,  it  will  make  a  good 
permanent  feature,  and — er — you  will  gradually  drop 
into  other  things,  you  know.' 

'  Yes.  I  've  made  notes  of  a  few  suggestions,'  I 
began. 

'  Quite  so.  That 's  what  I  want.  That 's  where  I 
hope  we  shall  be  really  successful.  There  's  no  good  in 
having  a  brilliant  editorial  staff  if  one  doesn't  get  sugges- 
tions from  them,  and  act  on  'em.' 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    271 

I  drew  some  memoranda  from  my  pocket.  But  the 
editor  swept  on. 

'  I  'm  a  thorough  believer  in  suggestions.  The  moment 
I  have  got  things  running  a  little  more  smoothly,  I  shall 
have  a  round  table  conference  every  afternoon  to  deal 
with  suggestions  for  the  day.  Meantime,  I  '11  tell  my 
secretary  to  have  all  letters  for  publication  passed 
straight  on  to  you,  so  that  you  can  sift  and  prepare  a 
correspondence  feature  every  day.  They  may  want 
helping  out  a  bit  occasionally,  of  course.  A  friendly 
lead,  you  know,  from  "  And  Old  Reader,"  or  "  Pater- 
familias," to  keep  'em  to  their  muttons.     You  '11  see.' 

*  And  where  can  I  work  ?  '  I  asked. 

4  Ah,  to  be  sure.  Yes.  You  want  a  room.  Come 
with  me  now.  I  '11  introduce  you  to  Hutchcns,  the 
manager,  and  he  '11  fix  you  up.' 

Mr.  Hutchens  proved  to  be  a  miracle  of  correctness. 
I  never  knew  much  of  Lombard  Street,  Cornhill,  Thread- 
needle  Street,  and  their  purlieus  ;  but  I  felt  instinctively 
that  Mr.  Hutchens,  in  his  dress,  tone,  and  general  deport- 
ment, had  attained  as  closely  as  mortal  might  to  the 
highest  city  standards  of  what  a  leading  city  man  should 
be.  I  never  saw  a  speck  of  dust  on  his  immaculately 
shining  boots  or  hat.  His  manner  would  have  been  almost 
priceless,  I  should  suppose,  in  the  board  room  of  a  bank. 
His  close-clipped  whiskers — resembling  some  costly  fur — 
his  large,  perfectly  white  hands  and  frozen  facial  ex- 
pression were  alike  eloquent  of  massive  dividends,  of 
balance  sheets  of  sacred  propriety,  of  gravely  cordial 
votes  of  thanks  to  noble  chairmen,  of  gilt-edged 
security  and  success. 

There  was  something,  too,  of  the  headmaster  in  the 
way  in  which  he  shook  hands  with  me,  and  in  the  auto- 
matic geniality  of  the  smile  with  which  he  favoured 
Arncliffe.  (In  this  connection,  <>f  course,  Arncliffc  was  a 
parent,  and  I  a  future  incumbent  of  the  swishing  block.) 

1  Another  star  in  our  costly  galaxy,'   he   said  ;    and, 


272   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

having  reduced  me  by  one  glance  to  the  proportions  of 
a  performing  flea,  rather  poorly  trained,  he  gave  his 
attention  indulgently  to  the  editor. 

'  With  regard  to  that  question  of  the  extra  twenty 
minutes  for  the  last  forme,'  he  began. 

4  Yes,  I  know,'  said  Arncliffe.  '  Drop  in  and  see  me 
about  it  later,  will  you  ?  '  (I  marvelled  at  his  temerity. 
As  soon  would  I  have  thought  of  inviting  the  Lord  Mayor 
to  forsake  his  Mansion  House  and  turtles  to  '  drop  in  and 
see  me  later ! ')  '  Meantime,  I  want  you  to  find  a  home 
for  Freydon,  will  you  ?  He  's  going  to  tackle  the — a  new 
feature,  you  know,  and  must  have  a  room.' 

'  There 's  not  a  vacant  room  in  the  building,  Mr. 
Arncliffe — hardly  a  chair,  I  should  suppose.  We  now 
have  a  staff,  you  know,  which ' 

'  Yes,  I  know,  I  know ;  there  's  got  to  be  a  good  deal 
of  sifting,  but  we  must  go  gently.  We  don't  want  to  set 
Fleet  Street  humming.  Look  here  !  What  about  old 
Harbottle  ?     He  has  a  room,  hasn't  he  ?  ' 

'  Mr.  Harbottle  has  had  his  room  here,  Mr.  Arncliffe, 
for  just  upon  twenty-seven  years.' 

'  Yes  ;  I  thought  so.     Where  is  it  ?  ' 

'  Mr.  Harbottle's  room  is  immediately  overhead.' 

'  Let 's  have  a  look  at  it.  Do  you  mind  ?  Can  you 
spare  a  minute  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  I  am  quite  at  your  service,  of  course,  Mr.  Arncliffe.' 

A  minion  from  the  messenger's  office  walked  proces- 
sionally  before  us  bearing  a  key,  and  presently  we  were 
in  Mr.  Harbottle's  sanctuary.  Two  well-worn  saddle- 
bag chairs  stood  before  the  hearth,  and  between  them  a 
chastely  designed  little  table.  On  the  rug  was  a  pair 
of  roomy  slippers.  In  a  glass-fronted  cabinet  one  saw 
decanters  and  tumblers.  Against  one  wall  stood  a  large 
and  comfortable  couch.  The  writing-table  was  supplied 
with  virgin  blotting-paper,  new  pens,  works  of  reference, 
ash-tray,  matches,  and  the  like  ;  and  over  the  mantel 
hung  a  full-length  portrait  of  Lord  Beaconsfield.     There 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    278 

was  also  an  ivory-handled  copper  kettle,  and  a  patent 
coffee-making  apparatus. 

1  H'm  !  The  old  boy  makes  himself  comfortable,'  said 
Arncliffe.  '  He  has  written  one  short  leader  note  since — 
since  the  change.  And  where  does  the  other  old  gentle- 
man work,  Hutchens  ?  The  one  with  gout,  you  know. 
What 's  his  name  ?     The  very  old  chap,  I  mean.' 

1  Dr.  Powell  ?  Dr.  Powell's  room  is  the  next  one  to 
this.' 

A  key  was  brought  to  us,  and  we  inspected  another 
very  similar  apartment,  which  had  a  green  baize-covered 
leg-rest  on  its  hearth-rug. 

1  H'm  !  Dr.  Powell  is  not  quite  so  busy,  of  course. 
We  haven't  had  a  line  from  him  yet.  Well,  Hutchens, 
you  might  have  Dr.  Powell's  things  put  in  Mr.  Harbottle's 
room  at  once,  will  you  ?  or  the  other  way  about,  you 
know.  It  doesn't  matter  which.  Then  Freydon  here 
can  have  one  of  these  rooms.  He  will  want  to  start  in  at 
once.* 

1  As  you  like,  of  course,  Mr.  Arncliffe,'  said  the  manager, 
with  portentous  suavity.  '  These  gentlemen  are  of  your 
staff,  not  mine.  But,  really  !  Well,  it  is  for  you  to  say, 
but  I  greatly  fear  that  one  or  both  of  these  gentlemen 
will  be  quite  likely  to  resign  if  we  treat  them  in  so  very 
summary  a  fashion.' 

4  No  !  Do  you  really  think  that  ?  '  asked  Arncliffe, 
so  earnestly  that  I  felt  my  chance  of  having  a  room  to 
myself  was  irretrievably  lost. 

'  I  do  indeed,  Mr.  Arncliffe.  You  see,  these  gentlemen 
have  been  accustomed  for  very  many  years  to — well, 
to  a  considerable  amount  of  deference,  and ' 

4  Well,  then,  in  that  case,  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Hutchens  ; 
put  'cm  both  in  the  other  old  gentleman's  room  upstairs, 
will  you  ?  Mr.  Thingummy's,  you  know,  who  specialises 
on  Egyptology.  I  know  he  's  got  a  nice  room,  because 
he  insisted  on  my  drinking  a  glass  of  port  there  the  other 
night.     Port  always  upsets  me.     Put  'em  both  in  there, 


274  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

will  you  ?     Then  we  '11  give  one  of  these  rooms  to  L- 


and  you  might  let  Freydon  here  start  work  in  the  other 
right  away,  will  you  ?  By  Jove !  If  you  're  only  right,  you 
know,  that  will  simplify  matters  immensely.  An  excellent 
idea  of  yours,  Hutchens.     I  'm  no  end  obliged  to  you.' 

'  But,  Mr.  Arncliffe,  I  really ' 

*  Right  you  are  !  I  '11  see  you  later  about  that  last 
forme  question.  Look  in  in  about  an  hour,  will  you  ?  I 
must  bolt  now — half  a  dozen  people  waiting.  You  '11 
get  the  letters  from  my  secretary,  Freydon,  won't  you  ? 
Come  and  see  me  whenever  you  've  got  any  suggestions. 
Always  ready  for  suggestions,  any  time  ! ' 

His  last  words  reached  us  faintly  from  the  staircase. 

'  Tut,  tut  1 '  said  Mr.  Hutchens.  '  I  am  afraid  these 
violent  upheavals  will  make  for  a  good  deal  of  trouble ; 
a  good  deal  of  trouble.  However ! '  And  then  he 
glared  formidably  upon  me,  as  who  should  say :  4  At 
least,  you  cannot  give  me  any  orders.  Let  me  see  you 
open  your  mouth,  you  confounded  newcomer,  and  I  will 
smite  you  to  the  earth  with  a  managerial  thunderbolt ! ' 

'  Well,'  said  I  cheerfully,  '  I  'd  better  go  and  fetch 
those  letters.  And  which  of  these  rooms  would  you 
prefer  me  to  take  ?  ' 

4 1  would  prefer,  sir,  that  you  took  neither  of  them. 
But  as  Dr.  Powell's  gout  is  very  bad,  and  he  is  therefore 
not  likely  to  be  here  this  week,  you  had  better  occupy 
this  room — for  the  present.' 

The  emphasis  he  laid  on  these  last  words  seemed  meant 
to  convey  to  me  a  sense  of  the  extreme  precariousness  of 
my  tenure  of  any  room  in  that  building,  if  not  of  existence 
in  the  same  city. 

'  I  trust  you  understand  that  this  choice  of  rooms  is  no 
affair  of  mine,'  I  said. 

I  thought  his  frozen  expression  showed  a  hint  of 
softening  at  this,  but  he  only  said  as  he  swept  proces- 
sionally  away  : 

'  I  will  give  the  requisite  instructions.' 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    275 

XIII 

For  some  weeks  I  was  rather  interested  by  the  manipu- 
lation of  that  correspondence.  Treated  in  a  romantic 
spirit,  the  work  was  not  unlike  novel  or  play-writing ;  and, 
on  paper,  I  established  interesting  relations  with  quite 
a  number  of  rural  clergymen,  country  squires,  London 
clubmen,  a  don  or  two,  and  some  lady  correspondents. 

I  availed  myself  generously  of  the  hint  about  giving 
an  occasional  lead,  and  in  starting  new  topics  of  discussion 
entered  with  zest  into  the  task  of  creating  and  upholding 
imaginary  partisans  with  one  hand,  whilst  with  the  other 
hand  bringing  forth  caustic  opponents  to  vilify  and 
belittle  them.  As  a  fact,  I  believe  I  made  its  corre- 
spondence the  most  amusing  and  interesting  feature  in 
the  paper.  But,  as  his  way  was,  Arncliffe  lost  his  en- 
thusiasm for  it  after  a  time,  and,  delegating  the  care  of 
its  remains  to  some  underling,  spurred  me  on  to  fresh 
fields  of  journalistic  enterprise. 

It  was  not  easy  for  me  to  develop  quite  the  same 
interest  in  these  later  undertakings,  whatever  their 
intrinsic  qualities,  for  the  reason  that  my  domestic  cir- 
cumstances were  becoming  steadily  more  and  more  of  a 
preoccupation  and  an  anxiety.  It  had  not  taken  very 
long  for  me  to  learn  that,  in  my  case  at  all  events,  the 
fact  of  one's  income  being  doubled  does  not  necessarily 
mean  that  one's  life  is  made  smooth  and  easy  upon  its 
domestic  side.  By  virtue  of  my  increased  earnings  we 
had  moved,  after  my  first  month  as  a  salaried  man,  to 
rather  better  rooms  ;  but  there  seemed  no  point  in  having 
more  than  two  of  them,  since  I  now  had  a  room  of  my  own 
at  the  Advocate  office,  vice  poor  Dr.  Powell  and  his  leg- 
rest,  now  no  longer  to  be  met  with  in  that  building. 

As  time  went  on  many  unpleasant  things  became 
evident,  among  them  the  conclusion  that  ours,  Fanny's 
and  mine,  was  to  be  a  nomadic  sort  of  existence,  though  it 
was  apparently  never  to  fall  to  me  to  give  notice  of  an 


276   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

intended  change  of  residence.  The  notice  invariably 
came  from  our  landladies.  And  the  better  the  lodging, 
the  briefer  our  stay  in  it,  because  our  notice  came  the 
sooner.  In  view  of  this  it  was,  more  than  for  any 
monetary  reason — though,  as  a  fact,  it  did  seem  to  me 
that  I  was  rather  more  short  of  money  now  than  in  my 
poorer  days — that  we  took  to  living  in  shabby  quarters, 
and  in  the  frowzier  types  of  apartment  houses,  where 
few  questions  are  asked,  and  no  particular  etiquette  is 
observed.  .  .  . 

So  I  set  these  things  down  as  though  looking  back 
across  the  years  upon  the  affairs  of  some  unfortunate 
stranger  on  the  world's  far  side.  But,  Heaven  knows, 
this  is  not  because  I  have  forgotten,  or  shall  ever  forget, 
any  of  the  squalid  misery,  the  crushing,  all-befouling 
humiliation  and  wretchedness  of  those  years.  Just  as 
one  part  of  the  period  burnt  its  mark  into  me  for  ever  by 
means  of  its  effects  upon  my  bodily  health,  just  as  surely 
as  it  burned  its  way  through  my  poor  wife's  constitution  ; 
so  indelibly  did  every  phase  of  it  imprint  itself  upon  my 
brain,  and  permanently  colour  my  outlook  upon  life. 

Men,  and  even  women,  who  have  never  come  into 
personal  contact  with  the  pestilence  that  infected  my 
married  life,  are  able  to  speak  lightly  enough  of  it. 

'  Bit  too  fond  of  his  glass,  I  'm  told  !  ' 

'  His  wife  is  a  bit  peculiar,  you  know.  Yes,  he  has  to 
keep  the  decanters  under  lock  and  key,  I  believe.' 

Remarks  of  that  sort,  often  semi- jocular,  are  common 
enough.  The  pastry-cooks  and  the  grocers  know  a  lot 
about  the  feminine  side  of  this  tragedy,  at  which  so  many 
folk  smile.  But  those  who,  from  personal  experience, 
know  the  thing,  would  more  likely  smile  in  the  face  of 
Death  himself,  or  joke  about  leprosy  and  famine. 

I  had  seen  something  of  the  working  of  the  curse  among 
London's  very  poor  people.  Now,  I  learned  much  more 
than  I  had  ever  known.  At  first  I  thought  it  terrible 
when,  once  in  a  month  or  so,  Fanny  became  helpless  and 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    277 

incapable  from  drinking  gin.  I  came  eventually  to  know 
what  it  meant  to  see  ground  for  thankfulness,  if  not  for 
hope,  in  a  period  of  forty-eight  consecutive  hours  of 
sobriety  for  my  wife. 

The  practical  difficulties  in  these  cases  are  very  great 
for  people  as  comparatively  poor  as  we  were.  They  are 
intolerably  acute  in  the  households  of  workmen  earning 
from  one  to  two  pounds  a  week.  In  such  families  the 
presence  of  children — and  there  generally  are  children — 
is  an  added  horror,  which  sometimes  leads  to  the  most 
gruesome  kind  of  murder ;  murder  for  which  some  poor, 
unhinged,  broken-hearted  devil  of  a  man  is  hanged,  and 
so  at  last  flung  out  of  his  misery. 

I  never  gave  Fanny  any  money  now  if  I  could  possibly 
avoid  it.  Accordingly,  I  discovered  one  day,  when  I  had 
occasion  to  look  for  my  dress  clothes,  that,  having  sold 
practically  every  garment  of  her  own,  my  wife  had 
cleared  out  the  major  portion  of  my  small  wardrobe. 

But  a  far  worse  thing  happened  shortly  afterwards, 
when  my  wife  pawned  some  plated  oddments  belonging 
to  our  landlady.  This  episode  kept  me  on  the  rack  for 
a  full  week.  Replacing  the  stolen  articles  was,  fortunately, 
not  difficult ;  but  the  landlady  was.  She  was  bent  upon 
prosecution,  and  our  escape  was  an  excruciatingly  narrow 
one.  I  had  a  four  days'  '  holiday '  over  this  episode, 
during  which  my  editor  was  allowed  to  picture  me  in 
cheerful  recuperation  up-river — one  of  a  merry  boating 
party. 

After  this  I  made  inquiries  about  trained  nurses,  and 
gathered  that  they  were  quite  beyond  my  means ;  not 
alone  in  the  matter  of  the  scale  of  remuneration  they 
required,  but,  even  more  markedly,  in  the  scale  of  house- 
hold comfort  which  their  employment  necessitated.  I 
talked  the  matter  over  very  seriously  with  Fanny,  and 
begged  her  to  try  the  effect  of  three  months  in  a  curative 
institution  of  which  I  had  obtained  particulars.  At 
first  she  was  very  bitter  and  angry  in  her  refusal  to  discuss 


278    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

this.  Then  she  wept,  sobbed,  and  became  hysterical 
in  imploring  me  never  to  think  of  such  a  thing  for  her. 
But  the  extremely  difficult  and  harrowing  escape  from 
police  court  proceedings  had  impressed  me  very  deeply. 

As  soon  as  we  could  get  together  the  bare  necessities 
by  way  of  furnishings,  I  insisted  on  our  moving  into 
unfurnished  rooms  in  which  we  could  cater  for  ourselves. 
But  the  result  was  not  merely  that  there  was  never  a 
meal  prepared  for  me,  but  also  that  Fanny  never  had  a 
proper  meal.  I  engaged  servants.  They  either  gave 
notice  after  a  week,  or  worse,  much  worse,  my  wife 
made  boon  companions  of  them.  We  moved  again,  this 
time  into  unfurnished  rooms  in  a  house  whose  landlady 
undertook  to  serve  meals  to  us  at  stated  hours.  But  the 
house  was  too  respectable  for  us,  and  in  a  month  we  were 
given  notice. 

No,  it  was  not  easy  to  develop  any  very  warm  interest 
in  Mr.  Arncliffe's  projects  for  the  stimulation  of  the 
Advocate's  circulation.  But  I  occupied  Dr.  Powell's  old 
room  during  most  days,  and  did  my  best ;  and,  rather 
to  my  surprise,  when  I  quite  casually  said  I  was  not  able 
to  afford  some  luxury  or  another — lawn  tennis,  I  believe 
it  was,  recommended  by  my  chief  as  a  remedy  for  my 
fagged  and  unhealthy  appearance — I  was  given  an 
increase  of  salary  to  the  extent  of  an  additional  fifty 
pounds  a  year.  I  expressed  my  thanks,  and  Arncliffe 
said  : 

'  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  'm  only  too  glad.  Your 
work 's  first  rate,  and  I  much  appreciate  your  suggestions. 
I  don't  want  you  to  work  less  ;  but,  in  all  seriousness, 
my  dear  fellow,  you  should  take  it  easier.  Do  just  as 
much  work,  but  don't  worry  so  much  about  it.  Carry 
your  whatsaname  more  lightly,  you  know.  Believe  me, 
that 's  the  thing.' 

I  agreed  of  course,  and  went  home  to  give  Fanny  the 
news  of  the  increased  salary.  I  found  her  helpless  and 
comatose  on  the  hearth-rug. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    279 

I  had  talked  to  doctors,  and  gleaned  little  or  nothing 
therefrom.  Now  I  tried  a  lawyer,  with  a  view  to  finding 
out  the  legal  aspect  of  my  position.  Was  it  possible  to 
oblige  my  wife  to  enter  a  curative  institution  against  her 
will  T  Certainly  not,  save  by  a  magistrate's  order,  and 
as  the  result  of  repeated  appearances  in  the  dock  at 
police  courts. 

The  lawyer  told  me  that  our  '  man-made  '  laws  were 
pretty  hard  upon  husbands  in  such  cases  as  mine.  They 
offered  no  relief  or  assistance  whatever,  he  said  ;  though 
in  the  case  of  a  persistently  drunken  husband,  the  law 
was  fortunately  able  to  do  a  good  deal  for  the  wife.  '  But 
nothing  at  all  when  it 's  the  other  way  round,'  he  added  ; 
*  a  fact  which  leads  to  much  misery,  and  not  a  little  crime, 
among  the  poorer  classes.  I  'm  very  sorry  for  you,'  he 
added  ;  *  but  to  be  frank,  I  must  say  that  the  law  will  not 
help  you  one  atom  ;  neither  will  it  offer  you  any  kind  of 
redress  if  your  wife  sells  up  your  home  once  a  week. 
Neither  may  you  legally  put  her  out  from  your  home 
because  of  that.  Under  our  law  a  wife  may  claim  and 
hold  her  husband's  company  until  she  drives  him  into  the 
bankruptcy  court,  or  the  lunatic  asylum — or  his  grave. 
It  is  worse  than  senseless,  but  it  is  the  law  ;  and  if  your 
business  prevents  you  keeping  watch  and  ward  over  your 
wife  yourself,  the  only  course  is  to  employ  some  relative, 
or  a  professed  caretaker,  to  do  it  for  you.  The  law  shows 
a  little  more  common  sense  where  the  case  is  the  other 
way  round.  A  wife  can  always  get  a  separation  order 
to  relieve  her  of  the  presence  of  a  persistently  drunken 
husband  ;  and,  with  it,  an  order  for  her  maintenance, 
which  he  must  obey  or  go  to  prison.* 

So  I  did  not  get  very  much  for  my  six-and-eightpencc, 
beyond  an  explicit  confirmation  of  the  impression  already 
pretty  firmly  rooted  in  my  mind,  that  the  most  burden- 
some portion  of  my  particular  load  in  life  was  something 
which  nobody  could  help  me  to  carry. 

By  this  time  Fanny  had  lost  the  sense  of  shame  and 


280    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

humiliation  which  had  characterised  all  her  early  recoveries, 
and  informed  all  her  good  resolutions  and  frantic  promises 
of  amendment.  She  made  no  resolutions  now,  and  in 
place  of  shame,  poor  soul,  was  conscious  only  of  the 
physical  penalties  which  her  excesses  brought  in  their 
train.  These  made  her  very  sullen,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  very  irritable.  There  were  times,  as  I  well  knew, 
when  she  had  no  other  means  of  obtaining  drink,  but  yet 
did  obtain  it,  from  that  misguided  woman — her  mother, 
whose  craving  she  inherited,  without  a  tithe  of  the  brute 
strength  which  apparently  enabled  the  older  woman  to 
defy  all  consequences. 

I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  set  down  here  precisely 
the  miserable  ways  in  which  I  saw  her  habits  gradually 
sap  all  self-restraint  and  womanly  decency  from  my 
wife.  The  process  was  gradual,  pitilessly  inexorable  as  the 
growth  of  a  malignant  tumour,  and  a  ghastly  and  humiliat- 
ing thing  to  witness.  In  the  case  of  a  woman,  my  im- 
pression is  that  alcoholism  reacts  even  more  directly  upon 
character,  and  the  mental  and  nervous  system,  than  it 
does  in  men.  Their  fall  is  more  complete.  At  least,  for 
a  man  it  is  more  horrible  to  witness  than  any  degradation 
of  another  man. 

XIV 

In  these  days  it  was  my  habit  each  evening  to  make 
my  way  as  directly  as  might  be  from  the  Advocate  office 
to  our  home  of  the  moment.  There  was,  of  course,  always 
a  certain  measure  of  uncertainty  in  my  mind  as  to  what 
might  await  me  in  our  rooms  ;  and  there  were  many 
occasions  when  my  presence  there  as  early  as  possible 
was  highly  desirable.  It  was  my  dismal  task  upon  more 
than  two  or  three  occasions  to  visit  police  stations,  and 
enter  into  bail  to  save  my  wife  from  spending  a  night  in 
the  cells. 

Naturally,  in  view  of  all  these  circumstances,  I  remained 
as  much  a  hermit  as  though  living  in  Livorno  Bay,  so  far 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    281 

as  the  social  life  of  my  colleagues  and  of  London  generally 
was  concerned.  During  all  this  time  social  intercourse 
was  for  me  confined  to  Fanny  (who  became  steadily  less 
social  in  her  habits  and  inclinations)  and  to  occasional 
meetings  with  Sidney  Heron.  Once  and  again  a  man  at 
the  office  would  ask  me  to  dine  with  him  (regarding  me 
as  a  bachelor,  of  course),  and  always  I  felt  bound  to 
plead  a  prior  engagement.  One  night,  when  Fanny  had 
gone  early  to  bed,  feeling  wretchedly  ill,  and  sullenly 
angry  because  I  would  have  no  liquor  of  any  sort  on  the 
premises,  not  even  the  lager  beer  which  it  had  been  my 
own  habit  for  some  time  past  to  drink  with  meals,  Heron 
sat  with  me  in  our  living-room,  smoking  and  staring  into 
the  fire.  It  was  late,  and  something  had  moved  Heron 
to  stir  me  into  giving  him  the  outline  of  my  early  life  and 
Australian  experiences. 

1  Yes,  you  're  a  queer  bird,'  he  opined,  after  a  long 
silence.  '  And  your  life  confirms  my  old  conviction  that, 
broadly  speaking,  there  are  only  two  kinds  of  human 
beings  :  those  who  prey — with  an  "  e,"  and  rarely  with 
an  "  a  "  —  and  those  who  are  preyed  upon  :  parasites 
and  their  hosts.  There  are  doubtless  subdivisions  in 
infinite  variety ;  but  I  have  yet  to  meet  the  man  or 
woman  who,  in  essence,  is  not  parasite  or  host,  the  prcyer 
or  the  preyed  upon.' 

*  And  I ■ 

'  Oh,  clearly,  and  all  along  the  line,  you  're  the  host. 
Mind,  I  waste  no  great  sympathy  upon  you.  It  is  quite 
an  open  point  which  class  is  the  less  deserving  or  the 
better  off.  But  in  your  case  it  is,  perhaps,  rather  a  pity, 
because  upon  the  whole  I  doubt  if  your  fibre  is  tough 
enough  to  sustain  the  part.  On  the  other  hand,  you 
haven't  half  enough  —  well  —  suction  for  a  successful 
parasite ;  and  those  between  are  apt  to  get  ground  up 
rather  small.  My  advice  to  you —  But,  Lord,  is  there 
any  greater  folly  in  all  this  foolish  world  than  the  giving 
of  advice  ?  ' 


282  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

'  Never  mind.     Let 's  have  it.' 

'  No,  I  '11  not  give  advice.  But  I  will  state  what  I 
believe  to  be  a  fact ;  and  that  is  that  you  would  be  the 
better  for  it  if  you  were  sedulously  to  cultivate  a  self- 
regarding  policy  of  laissez-faire.  It  may  be  as  rotten 
as  you  please  as  a  national  policy.  Our  own  beloved 
countrymen  are  even  now,  I  think,  preparing  for  the 
world  a  most  convincing  demonstration  of  that.  But 
for  certain  individuals — you  among  'em — it  has  many 
points,  and,  pursued  with  discretion,  is  likely  to  prove 
highly  beneficial.' 

'  Ah  !    The  let-be  policy  ?  ' 

Heron  nodded.  *  Of  all  creeds,*  he  said,  '  perhaps  the 
one  that  calls  for  the  most  rigid  self-control — for  a  certain 
type  of  man,  the  type  that  most  needs  its  use.' 

I  had  lowered  my  voice  involuntarily,  though  I  knew 
that  Fanny  had  long  since  been  sleeping  heavily.  '  Do 
you  realise  what  it  would  mean  in  my  particular  case, 
on  the  domestic  side  ?  '  I  asked. 

'Well,  yes;  I  think  so.' 

'  Hardly,  my  friend.  It  would  mean  relinquishing  the 
care  of  my  wife  to  the  police.'  There  were  no  secrets 
between  us  in  this  matter. 

'  Yes,  something  rather  like  that,  I  suppose,'  said 
Heron.  '  And  don't  you  think  upon  the  whole  they  may 
be  rather  better  equipped  for  the  task  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  Heron  ! ' 

'  Oh,  of  course,  that  tone's  unanswerable.  But  lay 
aside  the  sentimental  aspect,  and  consider  the  practical 
logic  of  it.  You  might  as  well  see  where  you  really  stand, 
you  know.  It  won't  affect  your  actions,  really.  You 
belong  to  the  wrong  division  of  the  race.  But  what  are 
you  doing  to  remedy  your  wife's  case  ?  ' 

I  admitted  I  was  doing  nothing.  I  had  tried  in  many 
directions,  including  the  clandestine  administration  of 
costly  specifics,  which  had  merely  seemed  to  rob  poor 
Fanny  of    all    appetite  for   food,  without  in  any  way 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    283 

affecting  the  lamentable  craving  which  wrecked  her 
life. 

*  Precisely,'  resumed  Heron.  *  You  are  doing  nothing 
to  remedy  it,  because  there  is  nothing  you  are  in  a  position 
to  do.  You  are  merely  "  standing  by,"  as  sailors  say, 
from  sentimental  motives.  It  is  laissez-faire,  of  a  sort ; 
only,  it 's  an  infernally  painful  and  wearing  sort  for  you. 
It  reduces  your  life  to  something  like  her  own,  without, 
so  far  as  I  can  sec,  benefiting  her  in  the  least.  I  think 
the  police  could  do  as  well.  In  fact,  in  your  place,  I 
should  clear  out  altogether,  and  give  Mrs.  Pelly  a  show. 
But,  failing  that,  I  would  at  least  wash  my  hands,  so  to 
say.  I  would  refuse  the  situation  any  predominant  place 
in  my  mind,  join  a  club  and  use  it,  and —  O  Lord  ! 
what  is  the  use  of  talking  of  absolutely  hopeless  things  ? 
I  don't  know  that  I  'd  do  anything  of  the  sort,  and  I  do 
know  very  well  that  you  won't.' 

There  fell  another  silence  between  us,  which  lasted 
several  minutes.  And  then  Heron  rose  to  his  feet, 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  said  he  must  be 
going.  I  walked  down  the  road  with  him,  and  paused  at 
its  corner,  where  he  would  pick  up  an  omnibus.  The 
moon  emerged  from  behind  a  cloud,  touching  with  a 
delicate  sepia  some  fleecy  edge  of  cumuli. 

'  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  my  innocent,  that  there 
is  anything  in  England  beyond  the  metropolitan  radius  ?  ' 
asked  Heron  suddenly.  *  Honest,  now  ;  have  you  ever 
been  ten  miles  from  Charing  Cross  since  you  landed  from 
that  blessed  ship  ?  ' 

4  Well,  it  does  seem  queer,  now  you  mention  it ;  but 
I  don't  believe  I  have —  Except  to  Epping  Forest,  you 
know.  I  'm  not  sure  how  far  that  is  ;  but  I  used  often 
to  go  there  at  one  time,  not  lately,  but ' 

1  Before  you  mortgaged  your  soul  to  the  Advocate,  eh  ? 
Though  I  suppose  the  more  serious  mortgage  was  the 
one  before  that.  Look  here  !  Bring  your  wife  on 
Saturday,  and  meet  me  at  Victoria  at  ten  o'clock.     We  Ml 


284  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

go  and  have  a  look  at  Leith  Hill.  A  tramp  will  do  you 
both  good.    Will  you  come  ?  * 

By  doing  a  certain  amount  of  work  there  on  Sunday, 
I  could  always  absent  myself  from  office  on  a  Saturday. 
So  I  agreed  to  go.  On  the  Friday  Fanny  seemed  unusually 
calm  and  well.  I  was  quite  excited  over  the  prospect  of 
our  little  jaunt,  and  Fanny  herself  appeared  to  think 
cheerfully  and  kindly  of  it.  In  the  lodging  we  occupied  at 
that  time  I  had  a  tiny  bedroom  of  my  own.  I  woke  very 
early  on  the  Saturday  morning,  but  when  I  found  it  was 
barely  five  o'clock  turned  over  for  another  doze.  When 
next  I  woke  it  was  to  find,  greatly  to  my  annoyance,  that 
the  hour  was  half -past  eight ;  and  there  were  several 
little  things  I  wanted  to  have  done  before  starting  for 
Victoria.  I  hurried  into  our  sitting-room  before  dressing, 
meaning  to  rouse  Fanny,  whose  room  opened  from  it. 
But  she  was  not  in  her  bedroom,  and  returning  to  the 
other  room  I  found  a  note  on  the  table. 

'  I  am  not  feeling  well,'  the  note  said,  '  and  cannot 
come  with  you  to-day.  So  I  shall  spend  the  day  with 
mother,  and  be  back  here  about  tea-time.' 

For  a  moment  I  thought  of  hurrying  round  to  Mrs. 
Pelly's,  and  seeing  if  I  could  prevail  on  Fanny  to  change 
her  mind.  But  I  hated  going  to  that  house,  and,  of  late, 
I  had  had  some  experience  of  the  futility  of  trying  to 
influence  Fanny  in  any  way  during  these  sullen  morning 
hours,  when  she  was  very  often  possessed  by  a  sort  of 
lethargy,  any  interference  with  which  provoked  only 
excessive  irritation. 

It  was  most  disappointing.  But —  '  Very  well,  then,' 
I  muttered  to  myself,  '  she  must  stay  with  her  mother. 
I  can't  leave  Heron  waiting  at  Victoria.' 

So  I  dressed  and  proceeded  direct  to  the  station, 
relying  upon  having  a  few  minutes  to  spare  there  during 
which  to  break  my  fast  in  the  refreshment-room. 

Heron  nodded  rather  grimly  over  my  explanation  of 
Fanny's  absence,  and  we  were  both  pretty  silent  during 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    285 

the  journey  to  Dorking.  But  once  out  in  the  open,  and 
tramping  along  a  country  road,  we  breathed  deeper  of 
an  air  clean  enough  to  dispel  town-bred  languors.  I  felt 
ray  spirits  rise,  and  we  began  to  talk.  The  day  was 
admirable,  beginning  with  light  mists,  and  ripening, 
by  the  time  we  began  our  tramp,  into  that  mellow 
splendour  which  October  docs  at  times  vouchsafe,  especi- 
ally in  the  gloriously  wooded  country  which  lies  about 
Lcith  Hill. 

The  foliage,  the  occasional  scent  of  burning  wood — 
always  a  talisman  for  one  who  has  slept  in  the  open — 
glimpses  of  new-fallowed  fields  of  an  exquisite  rose- 
madder  hue,  bracken  and  heather  underfoot,  and 
overhead  blue  sky  sweetly  diversified  by  snowy  piles 
of  cloud — these  and  a  thousand  other  natural  delights 
combined  to  enlarge  one's  heart,  ease  one's  mind,  and 
arouse  one's  dormant  instinct  to  live,  to  laugh,  and  to 
enjoy.  Worries  rolled  back  from  me.  I  responded 
jovially  to  Heron's  grim  quips,  and  felt  more  heartily  alive 
than  I  had  felt  for  years. 

Having  walked  swingingly  for  four  or  five  hours  we 
sat  down  in  a  pleasant  inn  to  a  nondescript  meal,  at 
something  like  the  eighteenth-century  dining  hour ; 
consuming  large  quantities  of  cold  boiled  beef,  salad, 
cheese,  home-baked  bread,  and  brown  ale.  (I  had 
learned  now  to  drink  beer,  on  such  occasions  as  this,  at 
all  events ;  and  did  it  with  a  childish  sense  of  holiday 
1  swagger.'  Its  associations  with  rural  life  pleased  me. 
But  in  the  town  I  was  annoyed  to  find  that  even  half  a 
glass  of  it  was  apt  to  make  my  head  ache  villainously.) 
We  sat  and  smoked,  talking  lazily  in  the  twilight ;  missed 
one  train,  and  walked  leisurely  to  the  next  station  to 
catch  a  later  one. 

The  approach  to  London  rather  chilled  and  saddened 
rnc  by  the  sharp  demand  it  seemed  to  make  for  the 
laying  aside  of  calm  reflection  or  cheerful  conversation, 
and  the  taking  up  of  stern  realities,  practical  considcra- 


286  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

tions — the  hard,  concrete  facts  of  daily  life.  The  out- 
lines of  the  huddled  houses,  the  moving  lights  of 
thronged  streets,  the  Town —  It  seemed  to  grip  me  by 
the  shoulder. 

*  Come  !  Wake  up  from  your  fancies.  Been  laughing, 
joking,  chatting,  drawing  deep  breaths,  have  you  ? 
Ah,  well,  here  am  I.  You  know  me.  Hear  the  ring  of 
the  hurrying  horses'  feet  on  my  hard  ways  ?  See  the 
anxious  ferret  faces  of  my  workers  ?  I  am  Reality.  I 
am  your  master,  and  the  world's  master.  You  may 
escape  me  for  a  day,  and  dream  you  are  a  free  man  in 
the  open.  Grrrr ! — '  The  train  jars  to  a  standstill. 
4  That  may  be  well  enough  for  a  dream ;  but  I  am 
Reality.  Come  1  There  's  no  time  here  for  reflection. 
Pick  up  your  load.  Get  on  ;  get  on  ;  or  I  '11  smash 
you  down  in  my  gutters,  where  my  human  wastage 
lies  1 ' 

That  is  how  cities  have  always  spoken  to  me  as  I  have 
entered  them  from  the  country.  And  yet — and  yet, 
most  of  my  life  has  been  spent  within  their  confines. 
Long  imprisonment  makes  men  fear  liberty,  they  say. 
But  how  could  a  man  fear  the  kindly  country  and  its 
liberty  for  reflection  ?  And,  attaining  to  it,  how  could  he 
possibly  desire  return  to  the  noisy,  crowded  cells  of  the 
city  ?  Impossible,  surely,  unless  of  course  the  city 
offered  him  a  living,  his  life ;  and  the  country — calm 
and  beautiful — refused  it.  And  that  perhaps  is  rather 
often  the  position,  for  your  sedentary  man,  at  all  events  ; 
your  modern,  who  cannot  dig  and  is  ashamed  to  beg — 
a  numerous  and  ever  increasing  body. 

Big  Ben  struck  the  hour  of  eight  as  we  trundled  past 
into  Whitehall  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus.  I  thought  of 
Fanny  with  some  self-reproach.  She  would  have  reached 
the  lodgings  by  about  five,  and  our  evening  meal  hour 
was  seven.  I  hoped  she  had  not  waited  without  her 
meal.  I  left  Heron  on  the  'bus,  for  he  had  farther  than 
I  to  go,  and  hurried  along  to  No.  46  Kent  Street — the 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    287 

dingy  house  in  which  we  had  been  living  now  for  a  month 
or  more. 

Fanny  was  not  there,  and,  to  my  surprise,  the  landlady 
told  me  she  had  not  been  in  all  day,  save  for  five  minutes 
in  the  early  afternoon,  after  which  she  went  out  carrying 
a  parcel.  I  went  to  my  bedroom  for  an  overcoat,  as  the 
night  was  chilly.  I  possessed  two  of  these  garments  at 
the  time — one  rather  heavy  and  warm,  the  other  a  light 
coat.     Both  were  missing  from  their  accustomed  pegs. 

4  Tcha  1  Now  what  does  this  mean  ?  '  I  growled  to 
myself ;  knowing  quite  well  what  it  meant.  '  And  I 
take  holidays  in  the  country !  I  might  have  known 
better.' 

And  with  that — all  the  brightness  of  the  day  forgotten 
now — I  hurried  out,  bound  for  Howard  Street  and  Mrs. 
Pelly's  house. 

But  Mrs.  Pelly  had  no  idea  as  to  her  daughter's  where- 
abouts. It  seemed  Fanny  had  left  her  before  three 
o'clock,  intending  to  go  home. 

Then  began  a  search  of  the  kind  which  had  become 
only  too  familiar  with  me  of  late.  I  suppose  I  must  have 
entered  upon  scores  of  such  dismal  quests  since  my 
marriage.  First,  I  visited  some  twenty  or  thirty  different 
*  gin-mills.'  (In  one  of  them  I  stayed  a  few  minutes  to 
eat  a  piece  of  bread  and  cheese.)  Then  I  went  to  two 
police  stations,  at  the  two  opposite  ends  of  that  locality. 
Finally,  I  tramped  back  to  Kent  Street,  thinking  to  find 
Fanny  there,  and  picturing  in  advance  the  condition 
in  which  I  should  find  her.  The  most  I  ventured  to  hope 
was  that  she  had  been  able  to  reach  her  room  without 
assistance.     But  she  had  not  been  there  at  all. 

I  went  out  again  into  the  street,  somewhat  at  a  loss. 
It  was  now  past  ten  o'elock.  After  some  hesitation 
I  caught  a  passing  omnibus  and  journeyed  back  towards 
Howard  Street,  near  which  stood  a  third  police  station, 
which  I  had  not  before  visited. 

1  Wait  there  a  minute,  will  you  ?  '    said  the  officer  to 


288   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

whom  my  inquiry  here  was  addressed.  A  moment  later 
I  heard  his  voice  from  an  adjacent  corridor  :  '  Has  the 
doctor  gone  ?  '  it  asked.  I  did  not  hear  the  answer. 
But  a  minute  or  two  later  a  tall  man  in  a  frock  coat 
entered  the  room  and  walked  up  to  me.  I  could  see 
the  top  of  a  stethoscope  protruding  from  one  of  his  inner 
breast-coat  pockets. 

'  Name  of  Freydon  ?  '  he  said  tersely. 

'  Yes.' 

'  Ah  !    Will  you  step  this  way,  please,  to  my  room  ? ' 

And,  as  we  passed  into  an  inner  room,  he  wheeled  upon 
me  with  a  look  of  grave  sympathy  in  his  eyes.  '  I  have 
serious  news  for  you,  Mr.  Freydon  ;  if — if  it  is  your  wife 
who  is  here.' 

Then  I  knew.  Something  in  the  doctor's  grave  eyes 
and  meaning  voice  told  me.  It  was  not  really  necessary 
for  me  to  ask.  I  knew  quite  certainly,  and  had  no  wish, 
no  intention  to  say  anything.  My  subconscious  self 
apparently  was  bent  upon  explicitness.  For,  next 
moment,  I  heard  my  own  voice,  some  little  distance  from 
me,  saying,  in  quite  a  low  tone  : 

'  My  God  !  My  God  !  My  God  ! '  And  then  :  '  You 
don't  mean  that  she  is  dead  ?  ' 

But  I  knew  all  the  time. 

Then  I  heard  the  doctor  speaking.  His  body  was 
close  to  me,  but  his  voice,  like  my  own,  came  from  some 
distance  away. 

'  A  woman  was  brought  here  by  a  constable  this  after- 
noon .  .  .  helpless  .  .  .  intoxication.  .  .  .  Did  your  wife 
...  is  she  addicted  to  drink  ? '  I  may  have."  nodded. 
'  There  was  a  pawnticket  in  the  name  of  Freydon.  .  .  . 
She  passed  away  less  than  an  hour  ago.  .  .  .  The  con- 
dition .  .  .  heart  undoubtedly  accelerated  .  .  .  alcohol- 
ism ...  a  very  short  time,  in  any  case.  .  .  .  Medically, 
an  inquest  would  be  quite  unnecessary,  but  .  .  .  Will 
you  come  with  me,  and  .  .  .' 

From  a  long  way  off  now  these  phrases  trickled  into 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    FIRST  PERIOD    289 

my  consciousness,  the  sense  of  them  somewhat  blurred 
and  interrupted  by  a  continuous  buzzing  noise  in  my 
head.  We  walked  along  dead  white  passages,  and  down 
steps.  We  stopped  at  length  where  a  man  in  uniform 
stood  at  a  door,  which  he  opened  for  us  at  a  sign  from 
the  doctor.  Inside,  a  woman  was  bending  over  a  low 
pallet,  and  on  the  little  bed  was  my  wife  Fanny.  A 
greyish  sheet  was  drawn  over  her  body  to  the  chin. 
I  think  it  was  so  drawn  up  as  we  entered  the  room.  I 
stared  down  upon  Fanny's  calm,  white  face,  in  which 
there  was  now  a  refinement,  a  pathetic  dignity,  a  some- 
thing delicate  and  womanly  which  I  had  not  seen  there 
before  ;  not  even  in  the  early  days,  when  gentle  prettiness 
had  been  its  quality. 

The  thought  that  flashed  through  my  mind  as  I  stood 
there  was  not  the  sort  of  thought  that  would  be  associated 
with  such  a  scene.  The  buzzing  noise  was  still  going  on 
in  my  head,  but  yet  I  was  conscious  of  a  vast  silence  all 
about  me  ;  and  looking  down  upon  my  wife's  face,  I 
thought : 

4  Death  has  certainly  been  courteous,  considerate,  to 
poor  Fanny.' 


290   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :    SECOND  PERIOD 


My  wife  was  buried  in  Kensal  Green  cemetery,  a  populous 
London  city  of  the  dead.  And  that  afternoon  I  resigned 
my  position  on  the  staff  of  the  Advocate. 

I  do  not  think  that  even  at  the  time  I  had  any  definite 
reason  for  this  step,  and  I  do  not  know  of  any  now.  I 
remember  Arncliffe  remonstrated  very  kindly  with  me, 
spoke  of  plans  he  had  in  view  for  me,  about  which  he  was 
unable  to  enter  into  detail  just  then,  and  strongly  urged 
me  to  reconsider  the  matter.  I  told  him,  without  much 
relevance  really,  that  I  had  buried  my  wife  that  morning  ; 
and  he,  very  naturally,  said  he  had  not  even  known  I  was 
a  married  man. 

*  Look  here,  Freydon,'  he  said  ;  '  be  guided  by  me. 
Take  a  month's  holiday,  and  then  come  and  talk  to  me 
again.' 

This  was  no  doubt  both  wise  and  kindly  advice,  but 
I  merely  repeated  that  I  must  leave  ;  and,  within  a  week 
or  two,  I  did  leave,  Arncliffe,  in  the  most  friendly  way, 
making  things  easy  for  me,  and  agreeing  to  take  a  certain 
contribution  from  me  once  a  week.  This  gave  me  three 
guineas  a  week,  and  I  was  grateful  for  the  arrangement. 

'  You  must  let  me  see  something  of  you  occasionally. 
I  'm  really  sorry  to  lose  you.  You  know  I  've  always 
appreciated  your  suggestions,'  said  Arncliffe,  when  I 
looked  in  to  bid  him  good-bye.  He  spoke  with  a  friendly 
sincerity  which  I  valued  ;  because  it  was  a  fact  that  he 
had,  as  editor,  adopted  and  developed  a  good  many 
suggestions  of  mine,  without  apparent  acknowledgment, 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :   SECOND  PERIOD  291 

and  after  keeping  them  in  his  pigeon-holes  until,  as  I 
thought,  he  had  forgotten  their  existence,  and  come  to 
think  the  ideas  subsequently  acted  upon  were  his  own. 

With  funds  in  hand  amounting  to  something  well  under 
twenty  pounds,  I  took  lodgings  on  the  outskirts  of 
Dorking — a  bedroom  and  a  sitting-room  in  the  rather 
pretty  cottage  of  a  jobbing  carpenter  and  joiner  named 
Gilchrist.  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  a  wholesome,  capable  woman, 
performed  some  humble  duties  in  the  church  close  by, 
in  which  she  made  use  of  a  very  long-handled  feather 
duster,  and  sundry  cloths  of  a  blue  and  white  checked 
pattern.  Her  husband  had  a  small  workshop  in  the 
cottage  garden,  but  his  work  more  often  than  not  took 
him  away  from  home  during  the  day.  Jasmine  and  a 
crimson  rambler  strayed  about  the  window  of  my  little- 
study,  from  which  the  view  of  the  surrounding  hills  was 
delightful.  For  some  days  I  explored  the  neighbourhood 
assiduously.  And  then  I  began  to  write  my  fourth 
book.  The  third — a  volume  of  short  stories  of  mean 
streets,  written  in  the  days  preceding  my  marriage — 
was  then  passing  through  the  press. 

When  I  first  went  to  Dorking  my  health  was  in  a  very 
poor  way.  I  imagine  I  must  at  the  time  have  been  on 
the  verge  of  a  pretty  bad  breakdown.  The  preceding 
six  or  eight  months  had  greatly  aggravated  my  digestive 
troubles,  and  I  had  also  suffered  a  good  deal  from 
neuralgia.  The  constantly  increasing  stress  of  my 
domestic  affairs,  superimposed  upon  steady  sedentary 
work  in  which  the  quest  for  new  ideas  was  a  continuous 
preoccupation,  and  combined  with  the  effects  of  an 
irregular  and  indifferent  dietary  and  lack  of  air  and  exercise, 
had  reduced  me  physically  to  a  low  ebb. 

During  those  last  weeks  in  London,  after  Fanny's 
death,  I  was  not  conscious  of  this  collapse ;  and  my 
first  week  in  Dorking  had  a  curiously  stimulating  effect 
upon  me.  Indeed,  I  fancy  that  week  was  the  saving  of 
me.     But  at  the  end  of  it,  after  one  long  day's  writing, 


292   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

I  took  to  my  bed  with  influenza,  and  remained  there  for 
some  time,  dallying  also  with  bronchitis,  incipient 
pneumonia,  gastritis,  and  a  diphtheritic  throat. 

Six  weeks  passed  before  I  left  my  bedroom,  but  during 
only  one  of  those  weeks  did  I  fail  to  produce  my  weekly 
contribution  to  the  Advocate.  If  the  quality  of  those 
contributions  in  any  way  reflected  my  low  and  febrile 
condition,  Arncliffe  mercifully  refrained  from  drawing  my 
attention  to  it.  At  the  end  of  the  six  weeks  I  sat  at  an 
open  window,  amused  by  the  ghostly  refinement  of  my 
hands,  and  grateful  to  Providence  for  sunshine  and  clean 
air. 

The  doctor  was  a  cheery  soul,  toward  whom  I  felt  most 
strongly  drawn,  because  he  was  the  only  man  I  ever  met 
in  England  who  smoked  my  particular  brand  of  Virginia 
plug  tobacco.  I  had  suffered  from  the  lack  of  it  since 
leaving  Australia,  but  this  good  doctor  told  me  how  to 
get  it  in  England,  from  an  agent  in  Yorkshire  ;  and  I  was 
deeply  grateful  to  him  for  the  information.  He  also 
told  me,  as  I  sat  at  the  open  window,  that  he  did  not 
think  much  of  my  stewardship  of  my  own  body. 

'  Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Freydon,  you  have  been  sailing 
several  points  closer  to  the  wind  than  a  man  has  any  right 
to  sail.  If  you  treated  a  child  so,  or  a  servant,  aye,  or 
a  dumb  beast,  some  preventive  society  would  be  at  you 
for  cruelty  and  neglect.  They  'd  call  me  for  the  prose- 
cution, and  by  gad,  sir,  my  evidence  would  send  you  to 
Portland  or  Dartmoor — fine  healthy  places,  both  of  'em, 
by  the  way  !  But  people  seem  to  think  they  're  licensed 
to  treat  their  own  bodies  with  any  amount  of  cruelty 
and  neglect.  A  grave  mistake  ;  a  grave  mistake  !  In  the 
ideal  state,  sir,  Citizen  Jones  will  no  more  be  allowed 
to  maltreat  and  injure  the  health  of  Citizen  Jones 
than  he  will  be  allowed  to  break  the  head  or  poison  the 
food  of  Citizen  Smith.  Why  should  he  ?  Each  is  of  the 
same  value  in  the  eyes  of  the  state  ;  and,  we  may  suppose, 
in  the  eyes  of  his  Maker.' 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  293 

The  good  man  blew  his  nose,  and  endeavoured  to 
introduce  extreme  severity  into  his  kindly  and  indomitably 
cheerful  expression. 

*  Yes,  sir,'  he  resumed.  4  You  've  got  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf  from  now  on.  Three  good,  plain  meals  a  day,  taken 
to  the  stroke  of  the  clock.  Eight  hours  in  bed  every 
night  of  your  life,  and  nine  if  you  can  get  'em.  Two 
hours  of  walkin',  or  other  equally  good  exercise — if  you 
can  discover  its  equal ;  I  can't — in  the  open  air  every 
day.  And  anything  less  will  be  a  flat  dereliction  of 
duty,  and  bad  citizenship,  remember  that.  This  is  for 
by  and  by,  of  course.  Just  now  you  want  twelve  hours 
in  bed,  and  half  a  dozen  light  meals  a  day.  Mrs.  Gilchrist 
knows  all  about  that.  Good,  sensible  woman,  Mrs. 
Gilchrist.  Wish  there  were  more  like  her,  these  days. 
Oh,  I  '11  be  seeing  you  again,  from  time  to  time.  Don't 
you  bother  your  head  about  "  accounts,"  my  dear  sir. 
And  when  you  begin  to  get  about  now  do  oblige  me  by 
remembering  your  duty  to  yourself,  as  I  've  told  you. 
As  your  doctor,  I  warn  you,  it 's  necessary  in  your  case — 
absolutely  necessary.     Good-morning  1 ' 

And  so  he  trotted  off  to  his  high  dog-cart  and  his 
morning  rounds.  An  excellent  and  kindly  man,  designed 
by  Nature,  his  own  temperament,  and  long  use,  for  the 
precise  part  in  life  he  played.  Such  adequacy  and  fit- 
ness are  rare,  and  very  admirable.  I  sometimes  think 
that  if  I  could  have  exactly  obeyed  this  excellent  physician, 
my  whole  life  had  been  quite  different.  But  then,  to  be 
able  exactly  to  obey  him,  perhaps  it  would  have  been 
necessary  for  me  to  have  been  a  different  person  in  the 
beginning.  And  then,  I  might  never  have  met  him,  and — 
there  's  the  end  of  a  profitless  speculation. 

As  a  fact  I  surreptitiously  resumed  work  on  that  book 
long  before  the  doctor  gave  permission,  and  within  a 
week  of  settling  his  account  I  was  once  more  living  a  life 
of  which  he  would  have  strongly  disapproved  ;  though 
it  certainly  was  a  very  mvieh  less  wearing  and  unwholesome 


294   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

one  than  the  life  I  had  always  lived  in  London.  But, 
as  against  that,  I  now  had  a  good  deal  less  in  the  way  of 
staying  power  and  force  of  resistance.  So  far  from  having 
paid  up  in  full,  and  wiped  off  all  old  scores,  in  the  matter 
of  those  first  years  in  London,  I  had  barely  discharged  the 
first  instalment  of  a  penalty  which  was  to  prove  part  and 
parcel  of  every  subsequent  year  in  my  life.  And  yet,  as 
I  have  said,  I  sometimes  think  that  doctor  gave  me  my 
chance,  if  only  it  had  been  in  me  to  live  by  his  instructions. 
But,  apparently,  it  was  not. 

II 

Sidney  Heron,  the  man  who  had  introduced  me  to  the 
country  round  about  Leith  Hill,  was  the  first  visitor 
received  in  my  Dorking  lodging.  He  came  one  Saturday 
morning  when  I  had  resumed  work  (though  the  doctor 
knew  it  not),  and  returned  to  town  on  the  Sunday  night. 

I  think  Heron  enjoyed  his  visit,  though,  out  of  con- 
sideration for  my  lack  of  condition,  he  walked  less  than 
he  would  have  chosen.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to 
have  him  there ;  and,  in  the  retrospect,  I  can  clearly 
see  that  I  was  powerfully  stimulated  by  talk  with  him  on 
literary  subjects.  So  much  was  this  so,  that  on  the 
Saturday  night  when  I  lay  down  in  bed  I  found  my  brain 
in  a  ferment  of  activity.  I  read  for  half  an  hour ;  but 
even  then,  after  blowing  out  my  candle,  the  plots  of  new 
books,  ideas  for  future  work,  literary  schemes  of  every 
sort  and  kind,  all  promising  quite  remarkable  success, 
were  spinning  through  my  mind  in  most  exhilarating 
fashion.  The  morning  found  me  somewhat  weary,  though 
not  unpleasantly  so  ;  and  consideration  of  all  this  made 
me  realise,  as  I  had  not  realised  before,  the  isolation 
and  retirement  of  my  life  there  in  Dorking ;  the  very 
marked  change  it  represented  from  the  busy  routine  of 
■days  spent  in  the  Advocate  office.  I  prized  my  retirement 
more  than  ever  after  this. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :   SECOND  PERIOD  295 

'  For,'  I  thought,  '  of  what  use  or  purport  was  all  that 
ceaseless  mental  stress  and  fret  in  London  ?  It  was  all 
quite  barren  and  fruitless,  really.  Whereas,  here — one 
can  develop  thoughts  here.  This  life  makes  creative 
work  possible.' 

I  am  afraid  I  gave  no  credit  to  Heron,  or  to  the  stimu- 
lating effects  upon  my  own  mind  of  contact  with  his 
bracing,  if  somewhat  harsh,  intelligence.  AH  was  attri- 
buted by  me  at  the  time  to  the  advantages  of  my 
sequestered  life.  The  effect  of  mental  stimulus  was  not 
by  any  means  so  evanescent  as  such  things  often  are, 
and  the  Monday  following  upon  Heron's  return  to  town 
saw  me  hard  at  work  upon  the  book  which  I  had  outlined 
and  begun  before  my  illness. 

There  followed,  in  that  modest  little  cottage  room  of 
mine,  some  three  or  four  months  of  incessant  work  at 
high  pressure  ;  long  days,  and  nights,  too,  at  the  table, 
during  which  my  only  exercise  and  relaxation  in  a  week 
would  be  an  occasional  five  minutes'  walk  to  the  post- 
office,  or  a  stroll  after  midnight,  when  I  found  the  cool 
night  silence  soothed  me  greatly  before  going  to  my 
bedroom.  The  doctor's  counsels  were  all  forgotten,  of 
course,  or  remembered  only  in  odd  moments,  as  when 
going  to  bed,  or  shaving  in  the  morning.  Then  I  would 
promise  myself  reformation  when  the  book  was  finished. 
That  done  I  would  live  by  rote  and  acquire  bucolic 
health,  I  told  myself. 

In  most  respects  that  period  was  thoroughly  typical 
of  my  life  during  the  next  half  dozen  years.  When  the 
end  of  a  book  was  reached,  there  came  the  long  and  wear- 
ing process  of  its  revision.  Then  interviews  with  publishers, 
the  correction  of  proof  sheets,  the  excogitation  of  writings 
for  magazines — fuel  for  the  fire  that  kept  my  pot  a-boiling. 
There  were  intervals  of  acute  mental  weariness,  and  there 
were  intervals  of  acute  bodily  distress.  But  the  intervals 
of  reformed  living,  when  they  came  at  all,  were  too  brief 
and  spasmodic  to  make  a  stronger  or  a  healthier  man  of 


296   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

me.  My  business  visits  to  London  were  sometimes  made 
to  embrace  friendly  visits  to  Sidney  Heron's  lodgings. 
Two  or  three  times  I  dined  with  Arncliffe,  and  very 
occasionally  I  was  visited  at  Dorking  by  two  of  the  literary 
journalists  who  had  joined  Arncliffe's  staff  at  the  time  of 
his  appointment. 

With  but  very  few  exceptions  the  critics  were  very 
kindly  to  my  published  work,  and  I  apprehend  that 
other  writers  who  read  their  reviews  of  my  books  must 
have  thought  of  me  as  one  of  the  coming  men.  (The 
early  nineties  was  a  prolific  period  in  the  matter  of 
'  coming  men.')  I  even  indulged  that  thought  myself  for 
a  time.  But  not,  I  think,  for  very  long.  Like  every 
other  writer  who  ever  lived,  I  would  have  liked  to  reach 
a  large  and  appreciative  audience.  But  I  had  the  most 
lofty  scorn  for  the  methods  by  which  I  supposed  such  an 
xchievement  might  be  accomplished. 

For  a  long  time  I  sincerely  believed  that  it  was  not 
from  any  lack  of  substance,  style,  merit,  or  quality  that 
my  books  failed  to  reach  a  really  large  public  ;  but, 
rather,  that  they  were  without  a  certain  vulgarity  which 
would  commend  them  to  the  multitude.  If  not  precisely 
that  they  were  too  good,  I  doubtless  thought  that,  whilst 
good  in  every  literary  sense,  they  happened  to  be  couched 
in  a  vein  only  to  be  appreciated  by  the  subtler  minds  of 
the  minority.  The  critics  certainly  helped  me  to  sustain 
this  congenial  theory ;  and  it  was  not  until  long  after- 
wards that  I  accepted  (with  more,  perhaps,  of  sadness  or 
sourness  than  philosophy)  the  conclusion  that  if  my  work 
never  had  appealed  to  a  big  audience,  the  simple  reason 
was  that  it  was  not  big  enough  to  reach  so  far.  It  was 
perhaps,  within  the  limits  of  literary  judgment,  to  some 
extent  praiseworthy.  And  it  won  praise.  I  should  have 
been  content. 

I  certainly  was  not  content,  and  I  dare  say  the  life  I 
led  was  too  far  removed  from  the  normal,  both  socially 
and  from  a  health  standpoint,  to  permit  of  content  for  me, 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  297 

quite  apart  from  any  question  of  personal  temperament 
or  idiosyncrasy.  I  worked  and  I  slept,  and  that  was  all. 
That  is  probably  not  enough  for  the  purchase  of  healthy 
content;  at  all  events,  where  the  work  is  sedentary 
and  productive  of  strain  upon  the  mind,  nerves,  and 
emotions. 

As  society  is  constituted  in  England  to-day,  a  man  of 
my  sort  may  be  almost  as  completely  isolated,  socially, 
in  a  place  like  Dorking  as  he  would  expect  to  be  in  the 
middle  of  the  Sahara.  The  labouring  sort  of  folk,  the 
trades-people,  and  the  landowners  and  county  families, 
each  form  compact  social  microcosms.  The  latter  class, 
in  normal  circumstances,  remains  not  so  much  indifferent 
to  as  unaware  of  the  existence  of  such  people  as  myself, 
as  bachelors  in  country-town  lodgings.  The  other  two 
compact  little  worlds  had  nothing  to  offer  me  socially. 
And  so,  socially,  I  had  no  existence  at  all. 

The  same  holds  good,  to  a  great  extent,  of  my  sort  of 
person  practically  anywhere  to-day.  (The  latter  part 
of  the  nineteenth  century  produced  a  quite  large  number 
of  people  who  belonged  to  no  recognised  class  or  order  in 
our  social  cosmos.)  But  it  is  most  noticeable  in  the  ease 
of  such  a  man  living  in  a  country  town.  In  London,  or 
Paris,  or  New  York,  there  is  no  longer  any  question  of  a 
man  being  in  or  out  of  society,  since  there  is  no  longer  any 
compact  division  of  the  community  which  forms  society. 
Rather,  the  community  divides  itself  into  hundreds  of 
circles,  most  of  which  meet  others  at  some  point  of  their 
circumference. 

My  doctor  in  Dorking  was  a  bachelor.  I  did  not  attend 
any  church.  There  literally  was  no  person  in  that  district 
with  whom  I  held  any  social  intercourse  whatever.  And 
then,  by  chance,  and  in  a  single  day,  I  became  acquainted 
with  many  of  the  socially  superior  sort  of  people  in  my 
neigh  bourhood. 

Amcliffc's  chief  leader  writer  on  the  Advocate  staff  was 
a  man  called  Ernest  Lane,  who,  after  winning  considerable 


298    THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

distinction  at  Oxford,  falsified  cynical  anticipations  by 
winning  a  good  deal  more  distinction  in  the  world  outside 
the  university.  It  was  known  that  he  had  been  invited 
to  submit  himself  to  the  electors  of  a  constituency  in  one 
of  the  Home  counties,  and  his  work  while  secretary  to  a 
prominent  statesman  had  earned  him  a  high  reputation 
in  political  circles.  His  book  on  greater  British  legisla- 
tion and  administration  added  greatly  to  this  reputation, 
and  his  friends  were  rather  surprised  when  Lane  showed 
that  he  intended  to  stick  to  the  writer's  life  rather  than 
enter  parliament,  or  accept  any  political  appointment. 
Without  having  become  very  intimate,  Lane  and  myself 
had  been  distinctly  upon  good  and  friendly  terms  during 
my  time  in  the  Advocate  office,  and  he  had  visited  me 
three  or  four  times  in  my  retreat  in  Dorking.  Lane 
thought  well  of  my  work,  and  he  was  the  only  man  I 
knew  whose  political  conversation  and  views  had  inter- 
ested me.  It  was  not  without  some  pleasure,  therefore, 
that  I  read  a  letter  received  from  him  in  which  he  said 
he  was  coming  to  see  me. 

4  It  appears  to  be  a  case  of  Mohammed  coming  to  the 
mountain,'  this  letter  said  ;  '  and,  if  you  will  put  me  up, 
I  should  like  to  spend  Saturday  and  Sunday  nights  at 
your  place.  I  think  you  will  receive  an  invitation  to 
Sir  George  and  Lady  Barthrop's  garden-party  on  Saturday 
next,  and  if  so  I  hope  you  will  accept,  and  go  there  with 
me.  The  fact  is,  one  of  my  sisters  is  about  to  marry 
Arnold  Barthrop,  the  younger  of  the  three  sons,  and  the 
whole  tribe  of  us  are  supposed  to  be  there  this  week-end. 
I  am  not  keen  on  these  big  house-parties,  and  would  far 
sooner  have  the  opportunity  of  seeing  something  of  you 
if  you  would  care  to  have  me ;  but  I  have  promised  to 
attend  the  garden-party,  and  to  bring  you  if  I  can. 
Some  of  the  Barthrop's  Dorking  friends  are  rather  inter- 
esting people,  so  it  will  be  just  as  well  for  you,  my  dear 
hermit,  to  make  their  acquaintance.' 

Of  course,  I  wrote  to  Lane  to  the  effect  that  he  would 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND  :   SECOND  PERIOD  299 

be  very  welcome,  which  was  perfectly  true ;  but  I  was 
somewhat  exercised  in  my  mind  regarding  Lady  Barth- 
rop's  garden-party,  although,  when  her  card  of  invitation 
reached  me,  I  replied  at  once  with  a  formal  acceptance. 
Sir  George  Barthrop's  house,  Deene  Place,  was  quite 
one  of  the  show  places  of  the  district,  and  the  baronet  and 
his  lady  were  very  prominent  people  indeed  in  that  part 
of  the  county. 

Every  time  my  eye  fell  upon  the  invitation  card,  I 
was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  irritation  and  disturbance. 
What  had  I  to  do  with  garden-parties  ?  The  idea  of 
my  attending  such  a  function  was  absurd.  I  should  have 
nothing  whatever  in  common  with  the  people  there,  nor 
they  with  me.  Either  I  should  never  again  meet  one  of 
them,  or  their  acquaintance  would  be  an  irritation  and  a 
nuisance  to  me,  robbing  me  of  my  treasured  sense  of 
complete  independence  in  that  countryside.  Finally, 
I  decided  that  I  would  have  a  headache  when  the  time 
came,  and  get  Lane  to  make  my  excuses —  '  Not  that 
the  hostess,  or  any  one  else  there,  would  know  or  care 
anything  about  my  absence  or  presence,'  I  thought. 

But  my  unsocial  intention  was  airily  swept  aside  by 
Ernest  Lane.  I  did  accompany  him  to  Deene  Place,  and 
in  due  course  was  presented  by  him  to  Sir  George  and  Lady 
Barthrop.  No  sooner  had  we  left  the  host  and  hostess  to 
make  way  for  other  guests  than  Lane  touched  my  elbow. 

4  Here 's  the  first  of  the  five  Graces,'  he  whispered, 
nodding  towards  a  lady  who  was  walking  down  the  terrace 
in  our  direction.  I  remembered  that  my  friend  had  five 
sisters,  and  a  moment  later  I  was  being  introduced  to 
this  particular  member  of  the  sisterhood,  whose  name, 
as  I  gathered,  was  Cynthia.  As  Lane  moved  away  from 
us  just  then,  to  speak  to  some  one  else,  I  asked  my 
companion  if  she  had  been  going  to  any  particular  place 
when  we  met  her.  She  smiled  as  we  walked  slowly  down 
the  terrace  steps  to  the  lawn. 

'  I  am  afraid  my  only  object  just  then  was  the  un- 


300   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

gracious  one  of  evading  Sir  George  and  Lady  Barthrop,' 
she  said.  '  Theirs  is  such  a  dreadfully  busy  neighbour- 
hood. I  think  being  solemnly  introduced  to  a  stream  of 
people  is  rather  a  terrible  ordeal,  don't  you  ?  ' 

'  The  experience  would  at  least  have  the  advantage  of 
novelty  for  me,'  I  told  her.  '  But,  upon  the  whole,  I 
fancy  I  should  perhaps  prefer  a  visit  to  the  dentist.' 

*  Really  !  '  she  laughed.  '  Now  I  didn't  know  men 
ever  felt  like  that.  It 's  exactly  how  I  feel  about  it.  It 
really  is  worse  than  dentistry,  you  know,  because  you  are 
not  allowed  gas.' 

'  At  least,  not  laughing  gas,  but  only  gaseous  laughter 
and  small  talk,'  I  suggested. 

'  Which  makes  you  all  hazy  and  muddled  without  the 
compensating  boon  of  unconsciousness.  But  you  are  an 
author  and  a  journalist,  Mr.  Freydon — my  brother  often 
speaks  of  you,  you  know — and  so  you  must  have  had 
lots  of  experience  of  this  sort  of  thing ;  enough  to  have 
made  you  as  hardened  as  royalty,  I  should  think.  I 
always  think  of  authors  and  journalists  as  living  very 
much  in  the  limelight.' 

I  explained  that  some  might,  but  that  I  had  spent 
several  years  in  Dorking  without,  until  that  day,  attend- 
ing a  single  social  function  of  any  kind.  This  seemed  to 
interest  her  greatly,  once  I  had  overcome  her  initial 
incredulity  on  the  point.  Then  I  had  to  answer  questions 
about  my  way  of  living,  and  one  or  two,  of  a  discreet  and 
gently  curious  kind,  about  my  methods  of  working,  and 
the  like.  There  was  flattery  of  the  most  delightful  kind 
in  the  one  or  two  casual  references  she  made  to  characters 
in  books  of  mine.  Miss  Lane  never  said  :  '  I  have  read 
your  books,'  or,  '  I  have  been  interested  by  your  books,' 
statements  which  always  produce  an  awkward  pause, 
and  are  not  interesting  in  themselves.  But  she  showed 
in  a  much  more  pleasing  way  that  one's  work  had  entered 
into  her  life,  and  been  welcomed  by  her. 

Quite  apart  from  this,  I  do  not  think  I  could  possibly 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  301 

have  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  Cynthia  Lane 
without  concluding  that  she  was  the  most  charming 
woman  I  had  ever  met.  '  Charming  woman,'  I  say. 
Heavens  !  How  extraordinarily  inadequate  these  thread- 
bare words  do  look,  as  I  write  them,  recalling  the  image 
of  Cynthia  Lane  as  she  paced  with  me  across  that  smooth- 
shaven  lawn — green  velvet  it  seemed,  deeply  shaded  here 
and  there  by  noble  copper  beeches. 

I  suppose  Cynthia  was  beautiful,  even  judged  by 
technical  standards ;  for  her  figure  was  lissom  and  very 
shapely,  and  the  contour  of  her  sweet  face  perfect — so 
far,  at  least,  as  I  am  any  judge  of  such  matters.  Her 
eyes  and  her  hair  had  a  rare  loveliness  which  I  have  not 
seen  equalled.  But  it  was  the  soul  of  her,  the  indefinable 
essence  that  was  Cynthia  Lane,  which  made  her  truly 
lovely.  This  personality  of  hers,  at  once  tender  and 
adroit,  bright  and  grave,  humorous  and  most  sweetly 
gentle,  most  admirably  kind,  shone  out  upon  one  from 
her  face,  from  her  very  movements  and  gestures  even, 
giving  to  her  outward  person  a  soft  radiance  which  I 
cannot  attempt  to  describe.  This  nimbus  of  delicate 
sweetness,  this  irradiation  of  her  person  by  her  person- 
ality it  was,  which  made  Cynthia  Lane  lovely,  as  no 
other  woman  I  have  met  has  been. 

I  must  have  stolen  fully  half  an  hour  of  her  time  that  day, 
to  the  annoyance  it  may  be  of  many  other  people.  And 
it  was  not  until  she  was  being  in  a  sense  almost  forcibly 
drawn  away  from  me  by  the  claims  of  others  that  I 
learned,  from  the  manner  in  which  she  was  addressed  by 
Lady  Barthrop,  that  she,  Cynthia  Lane,  of  whom  I  had 
thought  only  as  one  of  Lane's  five  sisters,  as  one  among 
my  own  fellow  guests,  was  indeed  the  guest  of  the 
occasion,  and  the  betrothed  of  Lady  Barthrop's  younger 
son. 

Other  things  happened,  no  doubt.  I  was  presently 
introduced  to  young  Barthrop.  the  bridegroom  to  be  ; 
and,    mechanically,    I    endeavoured    to   comport   myself 


302   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

fittingly  as  a  guest.     But,   for  me,   the   entertainment 
ended  with  my  separation  from  Cynthia. 

4  Do  please  stop  being  a  recluse,  and  call  while  I  am 
here,'  she  had  said  as  she  was  being  drawn  away  from 
me  into  a  sort  of  maelstrom  of  gaily  coloured  dresses, 
and  laughing,  compliment-paying  men.  And  I  blessed 
her  for  that. 

Ill 

Charles  Augustus  Everard  Barthrop,  third  son  of  the 
baronet  and  his  wife,  was  the  assistant  manager  of  some 
financial  company  in  London,  of  which  his  father  was  a 
director.  I  fancy  the  young  man  himself  was  also  a 
director,  but  am  not  sure  as  to  that.  In  any  case  he 
had  the  reputation  of  being  one  who  was  likely  to  achieve 
big  things  in  the  world  of  finance  and  company  promotion, 
a  world  of  which  I  was  as  profoundly  ignorant  as  though 
a  dweller  in  the  planet  Mars.  In  another  field,  too,  this 
young  man  had  won  early  distinction.  He  was  a  mighty 
footballer,  and  a  rather  notable  boxer.  He  was  very 
blonde,  very  handsome,  very  large,  and,  I  gathered,  of 
a  very  merry  and  kindly  disposition.  He  looked  it. 
His  sunny  face  and  bright  blue  eyes  contained  no  more 
evidence  of  care  or  anxiety  than  one  sees  in  the  face  of  a 
healthy  boy  of  twelve. 

'  Here  is  a  man,'  I  thought,  '  peculiarly  rich  in  every- 
thing that  I  lack  ;  and  all  his  fife  long  he  has  been  equally 
rich  in  his  possession  of  everything  I  have  lacked.  And 
now  he  is  going  to  marry  Cynthia  Lane.  The  rest  seems 
natural  enough,  but  not  this.' 

As  yet  I  had  little  enough  of  evidence  on  which  to 
base  conclusions.  But,  as  I  saw  it,  Charles  Barthrop  was 
a  handsome  and  materially  well-endowed  young  animal, 
whose  work  was  company-promoting,  and  whose  diver- 
sions hardly  took  him  beyond  football  and  the  Gaiety 
Theatre.  I  dare  say  it  was  partly  because  he  was  so 
refulgently  well-dressed  that  I  assumed  him  devoid  of 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  303 

intellect.  As  a  fact,  ray  assumption  was  not  very  wide 
of  the  mark. 

1  And  Cynthia/  I  thought,  '  has  a  mind  and  a  soul. 
She  is  mind  and  soul  encased,  as  it  happens,  in  a  beautiful 
body.  She  is  no  more  a  mate  for  him  than  a  great  poet 
would  be  mate  for  a  handsome  fishwife  ;  an  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning  for  a  champion  pugilist.' 

It  was  natural  that,  during  that  Saturday  evening  and 
the  following  day,  conversation  between  Lane  and  myself 
should  turn  more  than  once  towards  his  sister  Cynthia 
and  her  forthcoming  marriage,  which,  I  understood,  was 
to  take  place  within  a  few  weeks  at  St.  Margaret's, 
Westminster.  We  had  become  fairly  intimate  of  late, 
Lane  and  myself,  and  the  introduction  to  various  members 
of  his  faimly  seemed  to  have  made  us  much  more 
intimate. 

'  You  have  made  no  end  of  an  impression  on  Miss 
Cynthia,'  he  said  pleasantly  on  the  Saturday  evening. 
4  She  was  always  the  literary  and  artistic  member  of  the 
sisterhood.  She  gave  me  special  instructions  to  bring 
you  along  in  time  for  some  tea  to-morrow,  and  she  means 
to  force  you  out  of  your  hermitage  while  she  is  at  Deene 
Place,  so  I  warn  you.  Seriously,  I  think,  it  may  be  good 
for  you.  You  will  be  sure  to  meet  some  decent  people 
there,  who  will  be  worth  knowing,  not  only  just  now, 
but  when  Cynthia  is  married  and  set  up  in  Sloane  Street. 
Barthrop  has  taken  a  house  there,  you  know.' 

With  a  duplicity  not  very  creditable  to  me,  I  pretended 
thoughtful  agreement.  A  brother  can  tell  one  a  good 
deal  without  putting  his  information  into  plain  words. 
I  gathered  from  our  talk  then,  and  on  the  following  day, 
that  the  Lane  family  occupied  the  difficult  position  of 
people  who  have,  as  it  were,  been  born  to  greater  riches 
than  they  possess.  Of  them  more  had  always  been 
expected,  socially,  than  their  straitened  means  permitted. 
The  pinch  had  been  a  very  real  one  of  late  years,  towards 
the  end  of  the  grand  struggle  which  their  parents  had 


304  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

passed  through  in  educating  and  launching  a  family  of 
two  sons  and  five  daughters.  It  was  easy  to  gather 
that  good  marriages  were  very  necessary  for  those  five 
daughters,  of  whom  Cynthia  was  the  first-born.  I  even 
gathered  that,  a  year  or  two  earlier,  there  had  been 
scenes  and  grave  anxiety  over  a  preference  which 
Cynthia  had  shown  for  a  painter,  poor  as  a  church  mouse, 
who,  very  considerately,  had  proceeded  to  die  of  a  fever 
in  Southern  Italy.  Mrs.  Lane  had,  to  a  large  extent, 
arranged  the  forthcoming  marriage  with  Charles  Barthrop, 
I  think.  In  the  interests  of  the  whole  family  Cynthia 
had  been  '  sensible  ' ;  she  had  been  brought  to  see  reason. 

'  And,  mind  you,'  said  Lane,  '  I  do  think  Barthrop  is 
an  excellent  chap,  you  know,  Oh,  yes ;  he  's  quite  a 
cut  above  your  average  city  man.  And  a  kinder-hearted 
chap  you  never  met.     The  pater  swears  by  him.' 

I  gathered  that  '  the  pater '  had  been  given  the  most 
useful  information  and  guidance  in  financial  matters  by 
this  Apollo  of  Throgmorton  Street. 

'  He  's  modest,  too,'  continued  Lane,  '  which  is  unusual 
in  his  type,  I  think.  He  told  me  his  favourite  reading 
was  detective  stories,  outside  the  sporting  and  financial 
news,  of  course  ;  but  he  has  the  greatest  respect  for 
Cynthia's  literary  tastes —  You  know  she  has  published 
some  verse  ?  Yes.  Not  in  book  form,  but  in  some  of 
the  better  magazines.  Oh,  yes,  Barthrop's  a  good  chap  : 
simple-minded,  a  shade  gross,  too,  perhaps,  in  some  ways. 
These  chaps  in  the  city  do  themselves  too  well,  I  think. 
But  quite  a  good  chap,  and  sure  to  make  an  excellent 
husband.  I  fancy  his  kind  do,  you  know — no  tension, 
no  fret,  no  introspection.' 

Again  I  made  signs  of  agreement  which  were  not 
strictly  honest. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  we  both  drank  our  tea  under 
the  copper  beeches  at  Deene  Place.  I  deliberately 
monopolised  Cynthia's  attention  as  long  as  I  possibly 
could,  and   then   devoted   myself   to   the   cold-blooded 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  305 

study  of  the  man  she  was  to  many.  I  found  him  very 
good-natured,  gifted  with  abundant  high  spirits,  agree- 
ably modest,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  intellectually  about 
on  a  par  with  a  race-horse  or  a  handsome  St.  Bernard 
dog. 

4  Cynthia  tells  me  we  are  to  bully  you  into  coming  out 
of  your  hermitage,'  he  said  to  me  with  a  sunny  smile. 
4  A  good  idea,  too,  you  know.  After  all,  being  a  recluse 
can't  be  good  for  one's  health ;  and  I  suppose  if  a  man 
isn't  fit,  it  tells — er — even  in  literary  work,  doesn't  it  ?  ' 

I  felt  towards  him  as  one  feels  towards  some  bright, 
handsome  schoolboy.  And  yet,  in  many  ways,  I  doubt 
not  he  had  more  of  wisdom  than  I  had.  I  had  spoken 
to  Cynthia  of  Leith  Hill,  and  she  had  said  that,  when 
staying  at  Decne  Place,  she  walked  almost  every  day 
either  on  the  hill  or  the  common.  Upon  that  I  had 
relinquished  her  attention  with  a  fair  grace. 

Of  course,  I  was  entirely  unused  to  the  amenities  of 
society.  I  used  no  subterfuges,  and  made  no  attempt 
to  disguise  my  interest  in  Cynthia,  or  to  pretend  to  other 
interests.  I  dare  say  my  directness  was  smiled  upon, 
as  part  of  the  eccentricity  of  these  literary  people  ;  one 
of  Ernest's  friends,  quite  a  recluse,  and  so  forth.  I 
gathered  as  much  a  little  later  on. 

Looking  back  upon  it  I  must  suppose  that  my  conduct 
during  the  next  week  or  so  would  be-  condemned  by  most 
right-thinking  people  as  ungcntlemanly  and  even  dis- 
honourable I  have  no  inclination  to  defend  it  ;  and  I 
could  not  affirm  that,  at  the  time,  I  loved  honour  more 
than  Cynthia  Lam-.  To  speak  the  naked  truth.  I  believe 
I  would  have  committed  forgery,  if  by  doing  so  I  could 
have  won  Cynthia  for  my  wife.  The  one  and  only  way 
in  which  I  showed  any  discretion  (and  that,  not  from 
any  moral  scruple,  but  purely  as  a  matter  of  tactics)  was 
in  withholding  any  open  declaration  to  Cynthia  herself. 

My  feeling  was  that  my  chance  of  a  life's  happiness  was 
confined  to  the  cruelly  short  period  of  a  week  or  two. 


306   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

There  was  no  time  for  taking  risks.  There  must  be  no 
refusals.  I  must  use  my  time,  every  day  of  it,  I  thought, 
in  the  effort  to  win  her  heart ;  and  trust  to  the  very  end 
to  win  her  consent.  I  availed  myself  fully  of  my  advan- 
tage in  living  in  Dorking  while  my  rival  spent  his  days 
in  London.  The  obstacles  in  my  path  were  such  as  to 
justify  me  in  grasping  every  possible  advantage  within 
reach,  I  told  myself.  Every  day  we  met.  Every  day 
I  walked  and  talked  with  Cynthia.  Every  day  love 
possessed  me  more  utterly.  And,  I  believe  I  may  say 
it,  every  day  Cynthia  drew  nearer  to  me.  No  word  did 
I  breathe  of  marriage  ;  that  which  was  arranged,  or  that 
which  I  desired.  It  seemed  to  me  that  every  available 
moment  must  be  given  to  the  moulding  of  her  heart,  to 
preparation  for  the  last  crucial  test,  when  I  should  ask 
her  to  sacrifice  everything,  and  cross  the  Channel  and  the 
Rubicon  with  me. 

There  is  no  need  for  me  to  burke  the  words.  Cynthia 
did  love  me  when  she  left  Dorking  for  her  parents'  house 
in  London  ;  not,  perhaps,  with  the  absorbing  passion 
she  had  inspired  in  me ;  yet  well  enough,  as  I  was 
assured,  to  face  social  disaster  and  a  break  with  her 
family,  in  order  that  she  might  entrust  her  life  to  me. 

'  Cynthia,'  I  said,  at  the  end  of  that  last  walk,  '  London 
is  not  to  rob  me  of  you  ?     Promise  me  !  ' 

'  If  you  call  me,  I  will  come,'  she  said,  looking  at  me 
through  tears,  and  well  I  knew  that  perfect  truth  shone 
in  those  dear  eyes. 

Regarding  this  as  the  most  serious  undertaking  of  my 
life,  I  had  endeavoured  to  overlook  nothing.  I  had 
obtained  a  marriage  licence.  A  London  registrar's  office 
was  to  serve  our  purpose.  I  had  previously  secured  a 
temporary  lodging  in  London,  and  now  went  there  with 
my  luggage.  Love  did  not  blind  me  to  practical  con- 
siderations. While  Cynthia  was  still  in  Dorking  I  had 
no  time  to  spare.  Now  that  she  was  entangled  in  her 
own  home  among  last  preparations  for  the  wedding  that 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  307 

was  not  to  be,  I  turned  my  attention  to  matters  affecting 
her  future  life  with  me. 

Three  afternoon  appointments  I  kept  with  Arncliffe 
in  the  Advocate  office.  When  I  left  him  after  our  third 
talk,  I  was  definitely  re-engaged  as  a  member  of  his 
staff,  at  a  salary  of  six  hundred  pounds  per  annum, 
having  promised  to  take  up  my  duties  with  him  in  one 
month  from  that  date.  Every  nerve  in  my  body  had  been 
keyed  to  the  attainment  of  this  result,  and  I  was  grateful, 
and  not  a  little  flattered  by  its  achievement.  I  was  still 
a  poor  man  ;  but  this  salary,  with  the  few  hundred  pounds 
I  might  hope  to  add  to  it  in  a  year,  by  means  of  inde- 
pendent literary  work,  would  at  all  events  mean  that 
Cynthia  need  not  face  actual  discomfort  in  her  life  with 
me.  Further,  I  sincerely  believed  (and  may  very  well 
have  been  correct  in  this)  that  her  influence  upon  me 
would  enlarge  the  scope  and  appeal  of  my  literary  work. 
I  realised  clearly  that  my  beautiful  lady-love  had  very 
much  to  give  me.  My  life  till  then  had  not  entirely 
lacked  culture  or  intellectuality.  But  it  emphatically 
had  lacked  that  grace,  that  element  of  gentle  fineness  and 
delicacy  which  Cynthia  would  give  it. 

Cynthia,  who  in  giving  me  herself  would  give  all  that  I 
desired  which  my  life  had  lacked,  should  come  to  me 
empty-handed,  I  thought.  I  did  not  want  her  to  borrow 
from  out  the  life  which  for  my  sake  she  was  relinquishing. 
On  the  day  before  that  fixed  upon  for  the  wedding  at 
St.  Margaret's,  she  should  come  to  me  in  the  park,  near 
her  home.  There  would  be  quite  another  sort  of  wedding, 
and  by  the  evening  train  we  would  leave  for  the  Continent. 
Every  detail  was  arranged  for.  We  met  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  preceding  day.  I  put  my  whole  fate  to  the  test, 
and  Cynthia  never  wavered.  We  arranged  to  meet  at 
two  o'clock  next  day. 

On  the  morning  itself,  just  before  noon,  I  hurried  out 
from  my  lodging  upon  a  final  errand,  intending  to  change 
my  clothes  and  lock  my  bags,  upon  my  return,  within 


308   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

half  an  hour.  My  papers  were  in  the  pockets  of  the 
clothes  I  intended  to  wear,  and  a  supply  of  money  was 
left  locked  in  my  handbag.  The  most  important  moment 
of  my  life  was  at  hand,  and,  as  I  walked  down  the 
crowded  Strand  into  Fleet  Street,  I  was  conscious  of 
such  a  measure  of  exaltation  as  I  had  never  known 
before  that  day. 

And  then,  for  the  second  time  in  my  life,  brute  force 
intervened,  and  made  utter  havoc  of  all  my  plans  and 
prospects.  Crossing  Fleet  Street,  close  to  Chancery  Lane, 
the  pole  of  an  omnibus  struck  my  shoulder  and  flung  me 
several  yards  along  the  road.  The  driver  of  a  hansom 
cab  shouted  aloud  as  he  jerked  his  horse  to  its  haunches 
to  avoid  running  over  me.  And  in  that  moment,  pawing 
wildly,  the  horse  struck  the  back  of  my  head  with  one  of 
his  fore  feet. 

For  the  second  time  in  my  life  I  lay  in  a  hospital, 
suffering  from  concussion  of  the  brain.  Almost  twelve 
hours  passed  before  I  first  regained  consciousness,  and 
the  morning  of  the  following  day  was  well  advanced  before 
I  was  able  to  inform  the  hospital  authorities  of  my 
identity.  No  papers,  nothing  but  a  handful  of  silver, 
had  been  found  in  my  pockets. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  morning  there  was  solemnised 
at  St.  Margaret's  Church  the  marriage  of  Cynthia  and 
Charles  Barthrop. 

'  If  you  call,  I  will  come.' 

But  I  had  not  called.  I  had  even  left  Cynthia  to  pace 
to  and  fro  through  an  afternoon  in  the  park  ;  at  that 
most  critical  juncture  in  both  our  lives  I  had  failed  her. 
In  a  brief  letter,  posted  to  an  address  given  me  by  her 
brother,  I  acquainted  Cynthia  with  the  facts  of  my 
accident,  and  nothing  more  than  the  facts. 

In  ten  days  I  was  out  of  the  hospital ;  and  Cynthia, 
another  man's  wife,  was  in  Norway. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  309 

IV 

I  dare  say  no  place  would  have  looked  very  attractive 
to  me  when  I  came  out  from  that  hospital ;  but  London 
and  my  lodging  in  it  did  seem  past  all  bearing  unattractive. 
The  Dorking  lodging  had  been  definitely  relinquished, 
and  in  any  case  I  had  no  wish  now  to  see  Dorking,  Leith 
Hill,  or  the  common. 

Knowing  practically  nothing  of  my  native  land  out- 
side its  capital,  I  packed  a  small  bag  at  my  lodging,  and 
walked  to  the  nearest  large  railway  station,  which 
happened  to  be  Paddington.  Arrived  there,  I  spent  some 
dull  moments  in  staring  at  way-bills,  and  finally  took  a 
ticket  at  a  venture  for  Salisbury.  There  I  found  a  quiet 
lodging,  and  spent  the  evening  in  idly  wandering  about 
the  cathedral  close. 

The  next  day  found  me  tramping  over  short  turf — 
turf  more  ancient  than  the  cathedral — in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Stonehenge.  And  so  I  spent  the  better  part  of 
a  fortnight,  greatly  to  the  benefit  I  dare  say  of  my  bodily 
health.  I  shall  always  love  the  tiny  hamlets  of  that 
sun  and  wind-washed  countryside,  between  Warminster, 
Andover,  Stockbridge,  and  Salisbury.  Yet  always  they 
will  be  associated  in  my  mind  with  a  bowing  down 
sense  of  loneliness,  of  empty,  unredeemed  sadness,  and  of 
irretrievable  loss.  I  cannot  pretend  that  I  experienced 
any  sense  of  remorse  or  penitence,  where  my  abortive 
attempt  to  win  another  man's  bride  was  concerned.  I 
had  no  such  feeling.  But,  discreditable  as  that  fact  may 
be,  it  did  not  make  the  aehing  sorrow  that  possessed  me 
any  the  less  real. 

I  was  conscious  of  no  remorse,  and  yet,  God  knows 
my  state  of  mind  was  humble  enough,  though  too  sombre 
and  despairing  to  be  called  resigned.  I  believe  that  in 
the  retrospect  my  loss  seemed  more,  a  great  deal  more  to 
me,  than  just  a  lover's  loss  ;  though  upon  that  score 
alone   I  was  smitten   to  the  verv  dust.     It   was  rather 


310  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

as  though,  at  the  one  blow,  I  had  lost  my  heart's  desire 
and  a  fortune  and  a  position  in  the  world ;  or,  at  least, 
that  these  had  been  snatched  from  my  grasp  in  the 
moment  of  becoming  mine. 

I  do  not  think  I  could  ever  explain  this  to  any  one  else  ; 
since  I  suppose  that  in  the  monetary  sense  the  rupture 
of  my  plans  left  me  the  better  off.  But  I,  who  had 
always  been  something  of  an  outlier  in  the  social  sense, 
an  unplaced  wanderer  bearing  the  badge  of  no  particular 
caste,  I  had  grown  in  some  way  to  feel  that  marriage 
with  Cynthia  would  in  this  sense  bring  me  to  an  anchorage, 
and  admit  me  to  a  definite  place  of  my  own  in  the  complex 
world  of  London.  The  idea  was  not  wholly  unreasonable. 
I  had  lived  very  rapidly  in  those  few  critical  weeks. 
Years  of  hope,  endeavour,  determination,  and  emotional 
experience,  I  had  crowded  into  my  last  days  in  Dorking. 
And  through  it  all  I  had  been  upheld  and  exalted  by  a 
pervasive  conviction  (which  I  apprehend  is  not  part  of 
the  ordinary  lover's  capital)  that  now,  at  length,  I  was 
to  know  peace,  rest,  content ;  the  calm,  glad  realisation 
of  all  the  vague  yearnings  and  strivings  which  had  spurred 
me  to  strenuousness,  to  unceasing  effort,  all  my  life  long. 

Cynthia  had  been  the  object  of  my  love,  of  my  passion- 
ate adoration,  indeed.  But  she  had  also  been  a  great 
deal  more.  When  she  had  bowed  her  beautiful  head  to 
my  wooing,  when  she  had  promised  that  upon  my  call 
she  would  come,  she  had  (all  unconsciously,  of  course) 
become  more  than  my  beloved.  She  became  for  me  the 
actual  embodiment,  the  incarnate  end,  aim,  and  reward 
of  all  the  strivings  of  my  lonely  life,  from  the  night  of  my 
flight  from  St.  Peter's  Orphanage  down  to  that  very 
day.  In  my  rapt  contemplation  of  her,  of  the  personality 
which  enthralled  me  far,  far  more  than  her  beautiful 
person  could,  I  smiled  over  recollection  of  my  bitter 
struggles  in  London  slums,  of  the  heart-racking  anxiety 
and  grinding  humiliation  of  life  with  poor  Fanny.  I 
smiled  happily  at  that  squalid  vista  as  at  some  trifling 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  311 

inconvenience  by  the  way,  too  small  to  be  remembered 
as  an  obstacle  in  my  path  toward  the  all-sufficing  and 
radiant  peace  of  union  with  Cynthia. 

1  Now  I  see  why  all  my  life  has  been  worth  while,'  I 
told  myself  on  the  eve  of  the  clumsy,  brutal  blow  of 
Fate's  hand  that  had  for  ever  robbed  me  of  Cynthia. 

In  the  living,  the  end  had  sometimes  seemed  too 
hopelessly  far  off  to  justify  the  wearing  strain  of  the 
means.  There  had  been  so  little  refreshment  by  the  way. 
But  with  Cynthia's  promise  there  had  come  to  me  an 
all-embracing  certainty  that  my  whole  life  had  been 
justified  ;  that  the  end  and  reward  of  all  my  struggles 
was  actually  in  my  hands  ;  that  I  now  had  arrived,  and 
was  about  to  step  definitely  out  from  the  ranks  of  the 
striving,  unsatisfied,  hungry  outliers,  into  the  serene 
company  of  those  whose  faces  shine  with  the  light  of 
assured  happiness  ;  of  those  who  fight  and  struggle  no 
longer  ;  for  the  reason  that  they  have  found  their  allotted 
place  in  life,  and  are  at  anchor  within  the  haven  of  their 
ambitions. 

I  may  have  been  very  greatly  to  blame  in  my  passionate 
wooing  of  another  man's  affianced  wife  ;  but,  at  least, 
I  believe  that  my  loss  of  Cynthia  was  a  far  greater  and 
more  crushing  loss  for  me  than  the  loss  of  any  woman 
could  possibly  have  been  for  Charles  Barthrop.  For  me, 
she  had  stood  for  all  life  held  that  was  desirable — the  sum 
and  plexus  of  my  aims.  For  Barthrop  there  were  his 
keenly  relished  sports  and  pastimes,  his  host  of  friends, 
his  family,  his  luxurious  and  well-defined  place  in  the 
world — not  to  mention  the  eity  of  London. 


When  I  left  the  spacious  purlieus  of  Salisbury,  it  was 
to  engage  chambers — bedroom,  sitting-room,  and  bath- 
room— in  a  remodelled  adjunct  to  one  of  the  Inns  of 
Court.     Here  my  arrangement  was  that  a  simple  breakfast 


312  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

should  be  served  to  me  each  day  in  my  sitting-room,  and 
that  I  was  free  to  obtain  my  other  meals  wherever  I  might 
choose.  Thus  provided  for  in  the  matter  of  a  place  of 
residence,  I  resumed  the  discarded  journalistic  life,  as  a 
member  of  the  Advocate's  editorial  staff,  in  accordance 
with  the  engagement  entered  into  with  Arncliffe,  when  I 
believed  I  had  been  arranging  to  secure  an  income  for 
Cynthia  and  myself. 

Before  renting  these  rooms  I  had  called  upon  Sidney 
Heron,  and  invited  him  to  share  a  set  of  chambers  with  me. 

*  No,'  he  said,  in  his  blunt  way,  '  I  'd  rather  keep  you 
as  a  friend.' 

I  dare  say  he  was  right ;  and,  in  any  case,  he  had  a 
fancy  for  living  at  a  good  distance  from  the  centre  of  the 
town  ;  whereas  my  own  inclination  was  to  avoid  the 
town  altogether,  if  that  might  be,  and  failing  this  to 
have  one's  sanctuary  right  in  the  centre  of  it.  My 
chambers  were  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  the  Advocate 
office,  and  not  much  more  than  half  that  distance  from 
the  Thames  Embankment — a  spot  which  interested  me  as 
much  as  its  lively  neighbour,  the  Strand,  irritated  and 
worried  me.  An  uneasy,  shoddy  street  I  thought  the 
Strand,  full  of  insistent  tawdriness  and  of  broken-spirited 
folk  whose  wretchedness  had  something  in  it  more 
despicable  than  pitiable.  Save  for  its  occasional  gaping 
rustics  (whom  I  thought  sadly  misguided  to  be  there  at 
all)  I  cordially  hated  the  Strand.  But  the  Embankment 
I  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  romantic  thoroughfares  in 
London  ;  and  many  a  score  of  articles  (which  brought  me 
money)  do  I  owe  to  the  inspiration  of  that  broad,  darkling, 
river-skirted  road,  and  the  queer  human  flotsam  and 
jetsam  one  may  meet  with  there. 

Among  the  direct  results  of  Cynthia  Lane's  influence, 
I  must  place  my  interest  in  politics.  I  had  hardly 
realised  that  women  had  any  concern  with  politics  until 
I  met  Cynthia.  She  was  in  no  sense  a  politician,  but  she 
followed  the  political  news  of  the  day  with  the  same 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  318 

bright  and  illuminating  intelligence  which  she  brought  to 
bear  upon  all  the  affairs  of  her  life  ;  and  her  attitude 
toward  them  was  informed  by  a  fine  patriotism,  at  once 
reasoning  and  ardent.  Chance  phrases  from  her  lips 
had  opened  my  eyes  to  the  existence  of  a  love  for  England, 
for  our  flag,  and  race,  such  as  I  had  not  dreamed  of  till 
that  time. 

Wc  spoke  once  or  twice  of  my  Australian  experiences. 
And  here  again  Cynthia's  patriotism  suggested  whole 
avenues  of  unsuspected  thought  and  feeling  to  me.  It  was 
Cynthia  who  introduced  to  my  mind  the  conception  of 
the  British  Empire,  and  our  race,  as  a  single  family, 
having  many  branching  offshoots.  I  do  not  mean  that 
Cynthia  supplied  facts  or  theories  hitherto  unknown  to 
me.  But  I  do  mean  that  her  woman's  mind  first  made 
me  feel  these  things,  intimately  and  personally,  as  people 
feel  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  members  of  their  own 
households. 

As  a  result  I  looked  now  with  changed  eyes  upon  many 
things.  Before,  I  had  loathed  and  detested  the  slums 
of  London,  and  the  vicious,  ugly  squalor  of  the  lives  of 
many  of  their  inhabitants  ;  hated  them  with  the  bitter- 
ness of  one  who  has  been  made  to  feel  their  poison  in  his 
own  veins.  There  had  been  far  more  of  loathing  than  of 
pity  or  sorrow  in  my  attitude  toward  the  canker  at 
London's  heart.  Gradually,  now,  because  of  the  insight 
I  had  had  into  Cynthia's  love  of  England,  my  view  became 
more  kindly.  I  looked  upon  the  canker  less  with  hatred, 
and  more  with  the  feeling  one  might  have  regarding 
some  horrible  and  malignant  disease  in  a  son  or  a 
daughter,  a  brother  or  a  sister.  And,  too,  with  more  of 
a  sense  of  responsibility  and  of  shame. 

So,  from  a  lofty  and  quite  ignorant  scorn  of  things  so 
essentially  mundane,  I  grew  to  take  an  understanding 
interest  in  current  politics,  and  more  particularly  in  their 
wider  aspects,  as  touching  not  England  alone  but  all 
British  lands  and  people.     I  obtained  a  press  pass  from 


314   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Arncliffe,  and  attended  an  important  debate  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  subsequently  recording  my  impres- 
sions, in  the  form  of  an  article  by  an  Outsider,  from 
Australia.  Journalistically,  that  article  was  a  rather 
striking  success ;  and  I  began  to  attend  the  House 
frequently,  and  to  write  more  or  less  regular  political 
impressions  for  the  Advocate. 

For  several  years  my  interest  in  these  matters  continued 
to  be  progressive.  (Three  volumes  of  a  political  or 
quasi-political  and  sociological  character  have  appeared 
under  my  name.)  I  am  grateful  for  that  interest,  be- 
cause it  gave  me  some  additional  hold  upon  life,  at  a  time 
when  such  anchorage  as  I  had  had  seemed  to  have  been 
wrested  from  me. 

There  was  a  quite  considerable  period — five  or  six 
years,  at  least,  I  think — during  which  political  work 
tended  to  broaden  my  mind,  widen  my  sympathies,  and 
enhance  my  esteem  for  a  number  of  my  contemporaries. 
Beyond  that  point  I  am  afraid  no  good  came  to  me 
from  the  study  of  politics  ;  from  which  fact  it  is  probably 
safe  to  assume  that  any  influence  I  exercised  ceased  to  be 
beneficial.  For  a  time  it  had,  I  think,  been  helpful  in 
its  small  way.     That  was  while  faith  remained  in  me. 

I  remember  conceiving  a  warm  respect  for  a  number  of 
men  engaged  in  political  work  as  writers,  organisers,  and 
speakers.  I  admired  these  men  for  the  fervour  with 
which  they  appeared  to  devote  their  lives  to  the  service 
of  political  ends.  I  even  derived  from  my  conception  of 
their  enthusiasm,  strong,  almost  emotional  interest  in 
certain  political  issues,  tendencies,  and  developments. 
Later,  as  I  learned  to  know  the  men  and  their  work  better, 
came  rather  painful  disillusionment.  We  differed  funda- 
mentally, it  seemed,  these  eloquent  fellows  and  myself. 
One  actually  told  me  in  so  many  words,  and  with  a 
cynical  smile  at  his  other  companion  of  the  moment, 
as  who  should  say :  '  Really,  this  innocent  needs 
awakening ' ;  that  I  was  playing  the  gull's  part  on  the 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  315 

surface  of  things.  4  We  are  not  concerned  with  principles,' 
he  said,  in  effect.  '  That  may  be  all  right  for  the 
groundlings  —  our  audience.  Our  concern  is  parties, 
office — the  historic  game  of  ins  and  outs,  in  which  we 
have  our  careers  to  make.' 

Until  I  put  the  whole  business  for  ever  behind  me, 
I  never  lost  my  interest  in  issues  and  principles  ;  neither 
did  I  ever  acquire  one  jot  or  tittle  of  the  professional's 
interest  in  the  political  game,  as  such  ;  or  endeavour  to 
utilise  its  complex  machinery  for  the  furtherance  of  my 
own  career.  But  in  the  course  of  time  the  study,  not  so 
much  of  politics  as  of  political  life,  came  to  fill  me  with 
a  kind  of  sick  weariness  and  disgust ;  a  sort  of  dull 
nausea  and  shame,  such  as  I  imagine  forms  one  of  the 
penalties  for  the  unfortunate  sisterhood,  of  what  is 
sardonically  called  the  life  of  pleasure.  Upon  the  whole, 
I  am  afraid  there  is  a  good  deal  in  common  between 
the  political  life  and  the  life  of  the  streets.  Certainly, 
the  camp  followers  in  political  warfare  are  a  motley  crew 
of  mercenaries,  and  they  take  their  tone  from  quite  a 
number  of  their  leaders. 

It  would  be  quite  beside  the  mark  to  add  that  there  are 
some  fine  men  in  British  politics.  There  are,  of  course,  in 
all  professions,  including  (I  dare  say)  that  of  burglary. 
There  still  arc  in  the  political  arena  gentlemen  whose 
single  aim,  pursued  with  undeviating  loftiness  of  purpose, 
is  the  service  of  their  country.  I  will  not  pretend  to 
think  their  number  large,  for  I  know  it  is  not.  (But  I 
dare  say  it  is  larger  than  it  will  be  a  few  years  hence, 
when  we  have  pursued  a  little  farther  the  enlightened 
ideal  of  governance  by  the  least  fit  for  the  least  fit, 
by  the  most  poorly  equipped  for  the  most  poorly 
equipped,  by  the  most  ignorant  and  irresponsible  for 
the  most  ignorant  and  irresponsible.)  But  the  class  of 
well-meaning,  decent,  clean-lived  politicians  is  a  fairly 
large  one.  As  these  worthy  if  unremarkable  men  have 
not  a  tithe  of  the  brains  of  the  most  prominent  among  the 


316   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

quite  unscrupulous  sort — the  undoubted  birds  of  prey — 
their  good  intentions  are  of  small  value  to  their  generation 
or  their  country,  and  represent  little  or  nothing  in  the  shape 
of  hindrance  to  the  skilled  pirates  of  political  waters. 

But  my  personal  concern  was  not  so  much  with  the 
rank  and  file  of  actual  politicians  as  with  the  great  army 
of  camp  followers  ;  the  band  of  fine,  whole-souled,  well- 
dressed,  fluent  fellows,  for  whom  '  something  must  be 
done,  you  know,'  because  of  this  or  that  interest,  because 
of  the  alleged  wishes  of  this  great  person  or  the  other; 
and  because,  above  all,  of  their  own  quite  wonderful 
pertinacity,  untiring  pushfulness,  and,  of  course,  their 
valuable  services  and  great  abilities  as  talkers,  writers, 
'  organisers,'  and  what  not. 

I  have  known  men  who,  for  years,  had  found  it  worth 
not  less  than  £800  or  £1000  a  year  to  them  to  have  been 

spoken  of  by  Mr.  ,  Lord  ,  or  Sir ,  as  '  an 

exceedingly  capable  organiser,  and — er — devoted  to  the 
Cause.'  No  one  ever  knew  precisely  what  they  had 
organised  (apart  from  their  own  comfortable  subsistence 
in  West  End  clubs  and  houses)  or  were  to  organise  ; 
but  there  they  were,  fine  fellows  all,  tastefully  dressed, 
in  the  best  of  health  and  spirits,  and  indefatigably  fluent 
in — in — er — the  service  of  the  Cause,  you  know  1 

There  was  a  period  in  which  I  fancied  these  parasites 
were  the  monopoly  of  one  political  party.  But  I  soon 
learned  that  this  was  far  from  being  the  case.  All  the 
four  parties  which  the  twentieth  century  saw  established 
in  parliament  are  equally  surrounded  by  their  camp 
followers,  who  each  differ  from  each  other  only  superfici- 
ally, and,  not  unseldom,  transfer  their  allegiance  in  pursuit 
of  fatter  game.  The  differences  do  impress  one  at  first, 
but,  as  I  say,  they  are  mainly  superficial.  All  are  equally 
self-centred  and  true  to  type  as  parasites  ;  though  one 
brood  is  better  dressed  than  another,  and  has  a  more 
formidable  appetite.  What  makes  rich  pickings  for  the 
follower  of  one  camp  would  leave  the  follower  of  another 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD   317 

camp  lean  and  hungry  indeed.  But  the  necessary  scale 
of  expenditure  being  higher  in  one  division  than  another, 
things  equalise  themselves  pretty  much.  I  believe  it  is 
much  the  same  in  the  case  of  the  other  ancient  profession 
I  have  mentioned. 

I  have  seen  quite  a  large  number  of  promising  young 
men,  fresh  from  the  Universities,  and  beginning  life  in 
London  with  high  aspirations  and  genuine  patriotism  in 
their  hearts,  only  to  become  gradually  absorbed  into  the 
gigantic  parasitical  incubus  of  the  body  politic.  The 
process  of  absorption  was  none  the  less  saddening  and 
embittering  to  watch,  because  its  subjects  usually  waxed 
fatter  and  more  apparently  jovial  with  each  stage  in  their 
gradual  exchange  of  ideals  for  cash,  patriotism  for 
nepotism,  enthusiasm  for  cynicism,  and  disinterestedness 
for  toadyism.  Some  had  in  them  the  makings  of  very 
good  and  useful  citizens.  Their  wives,  so  far  as  I  was 
able  to  sec,  almost  invariably  (whether  deliberately  or 
unknowingly)  egged  them  on  in  the  downward  path  to 
complete  surrender.  As  a  rule,  complete  surrender  meant 
less  striving  and  contriving,  a  better  establishment,  and  a 
freer  use  of  hansom  cabs  in  place  of  omnibuses.  (I  am  think- 
ing for  the  moment  of  the  days  which  knew  not  taxi-cabs.) 

When  they  were  writers,  a  frequent  sign  of  the  begin- 
ning of  their  end  (from  my  standpoint ;  of  their  success, 
from  other  standpoints,  including,  no  doubt,  those  of 
their  wives)  was  that  they  began  to  write  of  persons 
rather  than  principles;  to  eulogise  rather  than  to  exhort, 
criticise,  and  suggest.  So  surely  as  they  began  their 
written  panegyrics  of  individuals.  I  found  them  laying 
aside  the  last  remnants  of  their  private  hero-worship. 
Very  soon  after  this  stage  they  generally  changed  their 
clubs,  becoming  members  of  the  most  expensive  of 
th  se  establishments;  and  from  that  point  on,  their 
progress  towards  finished  cynicism,  fatty  degeneration 
of  the  intellect,  and  smiling  abandonment  of  all  scruples, 
all  ideals,  and  all  modesty,  was  rapid  and  certain. 


318   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

The  inquiring  student  of  such  processes  would  perhaps 
have  found  banquets,  luncheons,  and  public  dinners  of 
a  more  or  less  political  colour  his  most  prolific  fields. 
Upon  such  occasions  I  always  found  the  genus  very 
strongly  represented.  In  one  camp  the  dress  clothes  of 
the  followers  would  be  of  a  better  cut  and  more  gracefully 
worn  than  in  the  other  camp ;  and  those  of  the  better- 
dressed  camp  had  more  of  assurance,  more  of  brazen 
impudence,  and  more  of  hopelessly  shallow  cynicism, 
I  think,  than  those  of  other  divisions.  In  many  cases,  too, 
they  had  more  of  education ;   but,  I  fear,  less  of  brains. 

It  was,  I  think,  the  contemplation  of  these  gentlemen, 
even  more  perhaps  than  my  saddening  knowledge  of 
their  shifty,  time-serving,  shilly-shallying,  or  glaringly 
unscrupulous  leaders  and  masters,  that  finally  disgusted 
me  with  those  branches  of  political  work  which  were  open 
to  me.  I  have  no  wish  to  sit  in  judgment.  Other  and 
stronger  men  may  find  that  they  may  keep  the  most 
evil  sort  of  company  without  ever  soiling  their  own 
hands.  I  know  and  very  sincerely  respect  a  few  political 
journalists  and  workers  of  different  parties,  whose  up- 
rightness is  beyond  suspicion  ;  whose  fine  enthusiasm 
remains  untarnished,  even  to-day.  I  yield  to  none  in  my 
admiration  for  such  men.  But  however  much  I  admired, 
or  even  envied,  it  was  not  for  me  to  emulate  these  gentle- 
men.    I  probably  lacked  the  necessary  strength  of  fibre. 

Arncliffe  was,  as  ever,  very  kindly  when  I  showed  him 
my  feeling  in  the  matter ;  and,  so  far  as  might  be,  he 
released  me  from  all  journalistic  obligations  of  a  political 
sort.  But  more,  I  was  given  a  complimentary  dinner. 
Speeches  were  made,  and  I  was  genuinely  astonished  by 
the  length  of  the  list  of  my  avowed  services  to  politics. 
It  was  affirmed  that,  under  Providence,  and  Arncliffe, 
and  one  or  two  people  with  titles,  I  had  been  instrumental 
in  starting  movements,  launching  an  organ  of  opinion, 
and  bringing  about  all  kinds  of  signs  and  portents.  The 
occasion  embarrassed  me  greatly. 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD   319 

It  was  true  enough  that,  for  a  season,  I  had  thrown 
myself  heart  and  soul  into  the  furtherance  of  certain 
political  aims  ;  and,  in  all  honesty,  I  had  worked  very 
hard.  And — heavens  I  how  I  was  sick  of  the  fluent 
humbugs,  and  the  complacent  parasites  I  If  only  they 
could  have  been  dumb,  and,  in  their  writings,  forbidden 
by  law  the  use  of  all  such  words  as  *  patriotism,'  I  could 
have  borne  much  longer  with  them. 

London  is  our  British  centre,  and  your  true  parasite 
makes  ever  for  the  kernel.  I  have  seen  them  treated 
with  the  gravest  and  most  modest  deference  by  working 
bees  from  outlying  hives — the  Oversea  Dominions  and 
the  Services — as  men  who  were  supposed  to  be  fighting 
the  good  fight,  there  in  the  hub,  the  heart,  and  centre  of 
our  House.  And,  listening  to  their  complacent  oozings, 
under  the  titillations  of  innocent  flattery,  I  have  turned 
aside  for  very  shame,  in  my  impatience,  feeling  that  in 
truth  the  heart  and  centre  were  devoid  of  virtue,  and  that 
true  patriotism  was  a  thing  only  to  be  found  (where  it 
was  never  named)  in  unknown  officers  of  either  service, 
and  obscure  civilians  engaged  in  working  out  their  own 
and  the  Empire's  destinies  in  its  remote  outposts,  and 
upon  the  high  seas. 

And,  impatient  as  that  thought  may  have  been,  how 
infinitely  better  founded  and  less  extravagant  it  was 
than  the  presumptuous  arrogance  of  these  gentlemen, 
who,  by  their  way  of  it,  were  i  Bearing  the  heat  and 
burden  of  the  day,  here  in  the  busy  heart  of  things — the 
historic  metropolis  of  our  race  !  ' 

VI 

Upon  three  occasions  only,  in  five  times  that  number 
of  years,  did  I  meet  Cynthia — Cynthia  Barthrop  ;  and 
those  meetings,  I  need  hardly  say,  were  accidental. 

The  promise  of  Cynthia's  youth  was  to  all  outward 
seeming  amply  fulfilled.     As  a  matron  she  would   have 


820   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

been  notable  in  any  company,  by  reason  of  her  sedate 
beauty,  and  the  dignity  of  her  presence.  But  her  manner 
suggested  to  me  that  her  life  had  certainly  not  brought 
content  to  Cynthia ;  and  I  gathered  from  her  brother 
Ernest  that  the  radiant  brightness  of  nature  which  had 
characterised  her  youth  had  not  survived  her  assumption 
of  wifely  and  maternal  cares.  Others  might  regard  this 
change  as  part  of  a  natural  and  inevitable  process.  In 
my  eyes  also  it  was  inevitable  and  natural,  but  not  as 
the  result  of  the  passage  of  time.  For  me  it  was  the 
inevitable  outcome  of  a  marriage  of  convenience,  which 
was  not,  for  Cynthia,  a  natural  mating.  The  key  to  the 
changed  expression  of  her  beautiful  face,  and,  in  particular, 
of  her  eloquent  eyes,  as  I  saw  it,  lay  in  the  fact  that  she 
Avas  unsatisfied ;  her  life,  so  rich  in  bloom,  had  never 
reached  fruition. 

One  letter  I  had  written  to  Cynthia,  within  a  few  days 
of  her  marriage.  And  there  had  been  no  other  com- 
munication between  us.  I  trust  that  forge tfulness  came 
more  easily  to  her  than  to  me. 

My  withdrawal  from  political  work  I  connect  with  the 
death  of  Queen  Victoria,  the  Coronation  of  King  Edward, 
and  the  end  of  the  South  African  War.  From  the  same 
period — a  time  of  the  inception  of  radical,  far-reaching 
change  in  England — I  date  also  my  final  emergence  from 
that  phase  of  one's  existence  in  which  one  is  still  thought  of, 
by  some  people  at  all  events,  as  a  young  man.  The  phase 
has  a  longer  duration  in  our  time,  I  think,  than  in  previous 
generations,  because  we  have  done  so  much  in  the  direction 
of  abolishing  middle  age.  Grey  hairs  were  fairly  plenti- 
ful with  me  well  before  the  admitted  end  of  this  phase. 

Those  last  years  of  the  young  man,  the  author  and 
journalist  of  '  promise,'  who  was  a  '  coming  man,'  and, 
too,  the  maturer  years  which  followed,  ought,  upon  all 
material  counts,  to  have  been  the  happiest  and  most 
contented  in  my  life  ;  since,  during  this  time,  my  position 
was  an  assured  one,   and  I  went  scatheless  as  regards 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD   321 

anxiety  about  ways  and  means — the  burden  which  lines 
the  foreheads  of  eight  Londoners  in  ten,  I  think.  Yes, 
by  all  the  signs,  these  should  have  been  my  best  and 
most  contented  years.  As  a  fact,  I  do  not  think  I  touched 
content  in  a  single  hour  of  all  that  period. 

What  then  was  lacking  in  my  life  ?  It  certainly  lacked 
leisure.  But  the  average  modern  man  would  say  that 
this  commonplace  fact  could  hardly  rob  one  of  content. 
My  income  did  not  fall  below  from  seven  hundred  to  a 
thousand  pounds  in  any  year.  In  all  this  period,  there- 
fore, there  was  never  a  hint  of  the  bitter,  wolfish  struggle 
for  mere  food  and  shelter  which  ruled  my  first  years  in 
London  ;  neither  was  I  ever  obliged  to  live  in  squalid 
quarters.  On  the  contrary,  I  lived  comfortably,  and  had 
a  good  deal  more  of  the  sort  of  social  intercourse  which 
dining  out  furnishes  than  I  desired.  And,  withal,  though 
I  knew  much  of  keen  effort,  the  stress  of  unremitting  work, 
and,  at  times,  considerable  responsibility,  I  do  not  think 
I  tasted  content  in  one  hour  of  all  those  long,  crowded, 
respectable,  and  apparently  prosperous  years. 

If  one  comes  to  that,  could  I  honestly  assert  that  in 
the  years  preceding  these  I  had  ever  known  content  ? 
I  fear  not.  Elation,  the  sense  of  more  or  less  successful 
striving,  occasional  triumphs  —  all  these  good  things  I 
had  known.  But  content,  peace,  secure  and  restful 
satisfaction —  No,  I  could  not  truly  say  I  had  ever 
experienced  these.  Perhaps  they  have  been  rare  among 
all  the  ( ducated  peoples  of  the  late  nineteenth  and  early 
twentieth  centuries ;  particularly,  it  may  be,  among 
those  who,  like  myself,  have  been  more  or  less  freely 
admitted  prospectors  in  the  home  territories  of  various 
classes  of  the  community,  without  ever  becoming  a  fully 
accredited  and  recognised  member  of  any  one  among  them. 

I  would  like  very  much  to  comprehend  fairly  the  reason 
of  the  barrenness,  the  failure  to  attain  content  or  satis- 
faction, in  all  those  years  of  my  London  life.  And,  for 
that  reason,  I  linger  over  my  review  of  them.     I  state  the 


322  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

case  as  fully  as  I  can.  But  do  I  explain  it  to  myself  ? 
I  fear  not.  Doubtless,  some  good  people  would  tell  me 
the  secret  lay  in  the  apparent  absence  of  definitely 
dogmatic  religious  influence  in  my  life.  Ah,  well,  there 
is  that,  of  course.  But  it  does  not  give  me  the  explanation. 
Others  would  tell  me  the  explanation  could  be  given 
in  one  word — egoism ;  that  there  has  been  always  too 
much  ego  in  my  cosmos.  Yes,  there  is  doubtless  a  great 
deal  in  that.  And  yet,  goodness  knows,  mine  has  not 
been  a  self-indulgent  life. 

As  I  see  it,  there  was  a  period  in  which  I  urgently 
desired  to  secure  a  safe  foothold  in  London's  literary  and 
j  ournalistic  life.  Material  needs  being  moderately  satisfied 
I  happened,  pretty  blindly,  into  my  marriage.  That 
effectually  shut  out  any  possibility  of  content  while  it 
lasted,  and  added  very  materially  to  the  inroads  made 
by  the  previous  struggling  period  upon  my  health. 
Later,  came  my  strongest  literary  ambitions  :  a  striving 
for  achievement  and  success,  and  I  suppose  for  fame, 
as  author.  And  then  the  brief,  tremendous  struggle  to 
win  Cynthia  for  my  wife.  So  far,  naturally  enough, 
there  had  been  no  content. 

After  the  collapse  of  my  attempt  to  win  a  mate,  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  became  definitely  middle-aged  ; 
though  any  outside  observer  of  my  life  would  probably 
have  dated  the  serious  beginnings  of  my  career — the 
'  young  man  of  undoubted  promise,'  etc. — from  that 
time,  since  it  was  from  then  on  that  my  position  became 
more  important.  I  directed  the  energies  of  others,  was 
a  leading  editor's  right  hand  man,  initiated  and  controlled 
new  departures,  and  commanded  far  more  attention  for 
my  writings  than  ever  before. 

But — and  here,  it  seems  to  me,  lies  the  crux  of  the 
matter — in  all  this  period  the  present  moment  of  living 
never  appealed  to  me  in  the  least.  I  derived  no  suggestion 
of  satisfaction  or  enjoyment  from  it.  I  was  for  ever 
striving,  restlessly,  uneasily,  and  to  weariness,  for  some- 


MANHOOD— ENGLAND :  SECOND  PERIOD  823 

thing  to  be  attained  later  on.  And  for  what  did  I  strive  ? 
Well,  I  know  that  the  old  ambitions  in  the  direction  of 
world-wide  recognition  as  a  literary  master  did  not  sur- 
vive my  return  to  Fleet  Street,  the  landmark  for  me  of 
Cynthia's  marriage.  Equally  certain  am  I  that  I  cherished 
no  plan  or  desire  to  accumulate  money  and  become  rich. 
I  had  no  desire  to  become  a  politician,  or  to  obtain  such 
a  post  as  Arncliffc's.  The  desires  of  my  youth  were  dead  ; 
the  energies  of  my  youth  were  dulled  ;  the  health  and 
physical  standard  of  my  early  manhood  was  greatly  and 
for  ever  lowered.  The  enthusiasms  of  my  youth  had  given 
place  not  to  cynicism  but  to  weary  sadness.  It  was  per- 
haps unfortunate  for  myself  that  I  had  no  cynicism. 

Very  well.  In  other  words,  a  disinterested  observer 
might  say  :  You  became  middle-aged — the  common  lot — 
and  dyspeptic  :  the  usual  penalty  of  sedentary  life.  But 
there  is  a  difference.  If  middle  age  brings  to  most,  as  no 
doubt  it  docs,  some  failure  of  health  and  a  notable 
attenuation  of  aims,  desires,  ambitions,  and  zest,  does 
it  not  also  bring  some  satisfaction  in  the  present  ?  I  think 
so ;  at  all  events,  where,  as  in  my  case,  it  brings  the  out- 
ward and  material  essentials  of  a  moderate  success  in 
life.  Now  in  my  case,  though  the  definite  aims,  the  plans 
for  the  future,  the  desired  goals,  had  merely  ceased  to 
exist,  the  present  was  Dead  Sea  fruit — null  and  void, 
a  thing  of  nought.  Just  where  does  my  poor  personal 
equation  enter  in,  and  how  far,  I  wonder,  is  all  this  typical 
of  twentieth-century  human  experience,  for  us,  the  heirs 
of  all  the  ages,  with  our  wonderful  enlightenment  and 
progress  ?     I  wonder  ! 

This,  at  all  events,  I  think,  is  as  near  as  I  can  come 
to  explanation.  Yet  how  very  far  short  it  falls  of 
explaining,  of  furnishing  me  with  the  key  which  the 
making  of  this  record  was  to  provide  ! 

However,  the  task  shall  not  be  shirked.  At  least,  some 
matters  have  been  made  clearer.  I  will  complete  my 
record — if  I  can. 


324  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


THE  LAST  STAGE 


'  What  do  you  aim  at  in  your  life  ? '  I  said  to  Sidney 
Heron  one  night,  when  the  first  decade  of  the  new  century 
was  drawing  near  its  close.  Heron  had  dined  with  me, 
and  we  had  continued  our  talk  in  my  rooms.  It  was  a 
Saturday  night,  and  therefore  for  me  free  of  engagements. 

'  The  end  of  it,'  replied  Heron,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

'  Ah  !  Nothing  else  ?  Nothing  to  come  before  the 
end?' 

'  Oh,  well,  to  be  precise,  I  suppose  one  does,  in  certain 
moods,  cherish  vague  hopes  of  coming  upon  a — a  way  out, 
you  know,  some  time  before  the  end  ;  time  to  compose 
one's  mind  decently  before  the  prime  adventure.  Yes, 
one  cherishes  the  notion  vaguely ;  but  I  apprehend  that 
realisation  of  it  is  only  for  such  swells  as  you.  I  have 
sometimes  known  thrifty  bursts,  in  which  I  have  saved 
a  little  ;  but — a  man  doesn't  buy  estates  out  of  my  sort 
of  work,  you  know.  He  's  lucky  if  he  can  keep  out — 
Well,  out  of  Fleet  Street,  say,  saving  your  worship's 
presence.' 

'  Yes,  yes  ;  you  've  always  done  that,  haven't  you  ? 
A  negative  kind  of  ambition,  perhaps,  but ■' 

'  Oh,  naturally,  you  must  pretend  scorn  for  it,  I  see 
that,'  said  Heron. 

'  Not  at  all,  my  dear  chap,  not  a  bit  of  it.  Indeed,  I 
should  be  one  of  the  last  to  scorn  that  particular  aim. 
But  I  was  wondering  if  you  cherished  any  other.  A 
"  way    out."      Yes,    there 's    something    rather    heart- 


THE  LAST  STAGE  325 

stirring  about  the  thought.  I  wonder  if  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  a  "  way  out."  I  forget  the  name  of  the  Roman 
gentleman  who  hankered  after  a  "  way  out."  Once  in  a 
year  or  so  he  used  to  wake  up,  full  of  the  conviction  that 
he  'd  found  it.  Out  came  the  family  chariots,  and  off 
he  would  gallop  across  the  Campagna  to  the  hills  beyond, 
where,  no  doubt,  he  had  a  villa  of  sorts,  vineyards,  and 
the  rest  of  it.  Here,  in  chaste  seclusion,  was  his  "  way 
out  "  :  a  glorious  relief,  the  beginning  of  the  great  peace. 
And,  a  few  weeks  later,  Rome  would  see  his  chariots 
dashing  back  again  into  the  city,  even  harder  driven  than 
on  the  passage  out.  However,  I  suppose  there  is  a 
"  way  out  "  somewhere  for  every  one.' 

1  Well,  I  wouldn't  say  for  every  one,'  said  Heron 
thoughtfully.  '  It  doesn't  matter  how  fast  you  drive, 
you  can't  get  away  from  yourself,  of  course.  The  question 
of  whether  there  is  or  is  not  a  "  way  out  "  depends  on 
what  you  want  to  get  away  from,  and  where  you  want 
to  reach.' 

It  may  be  well  enough  to  say  with  the  poet :  *  What  so 
wild  as  words  are  ?  '  But  the  fact  remains  that  mere 
words,  and  the  grouping  of  words,  apart  from  their  normal, 
everyday  significance,  have  a  notable  influence  upon  the 
thoughts  of  some  folk,  and  especially,  I  suppose,  of 
writers.  I  know  that  Heron's  careless  '  way  out ' 
phrase  occupied  my  mind  greatly  for  many  weeks  after 
it  was  spoken. 

4  After  all,'  I  sometimes  asked  myself,  '  what  has  my 
whole  life  amounted  to  but  an  uneasy,  restless,  striving 
search  for  a  "  way  out "  ?  It  has  never  been  "  to-day  " 
with  me,  but  always  "  to-morrow  "  ;  and  the  morrow 
has  never  come.  Never  for  a  moment  have  I  thought : 
"  This  thing  in  my  hand  is  what  I  want ;  this  present 
Here  and  Now  is  what  I  desire.  I  will  retain  this, 
and  so  shall  be  content."  No,  my  strivings — and  I  have 
been  always  striving — have  been  for  something  the  future 
was  to  bring.    And,  behold,  what  was  the  future  is  more 


326   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

barren  than  the  past ;  it  is  that  thing  which  I  seem  in- 
capable of  valuing — the  present.  Is  there  a  "  way  out " 
for  me  ?  Surely  there  must  be.  I  certainly  am  no  more 
fastidious  than  my  neighbours,  and  indeed  am  much 
simpler  in  my  tastes  than  most  of  them.' 

And  that  was  true.  If  I  could  lay  claim  to  no  other 
kind  of  progress,  I  could  fairly  say  that  I  had  cultivated 
simplicity  in  taste  and  appetite,  and  did  in  all  honesty 
prefer  simple  ways.  That  otherwise  abominable  thing, 
my  disabled  digestive  system,  had  perhaps  influenced 
me  in  this  direction.  In  days  gone  by,  I  should  have  said 
my  most  desired  '  way  out '  would  be  the  path  to 
independent  leisure  for  literary  work.  Now,  if  I  desired 
anything,  it  was  independent  leisure,  not  for  the  pro- 
duction of  immortal  books,  but  for  thinking ;  for  the 
calm  thought  that  should  yield  self-comprehension.  Yes, 
I  told  myself,  I  hated  the  daily  round  of  Fleet  Street, 
with  its  never-slackening  demand  for  the  production  of 
restrained  moralising,  polished  twaddle,  and  non-com- 
mittal, two-sided  conclusions,  or  careful  omissions, 
and  one-eyed  deductions.  It  was  thus  I  thought  of  it, 
then. 

'  What  you  want  is  a  holiday,  my  friend,'  said  Arn- 
cliffe,  upon  whose  kindly  heart  and  front  of  brass  the 
beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  seemed  powerless  to 
develop  the  smallest  fissure. 

*  You  are  right,'  I  thought.  '  A  holiday  without  an 
end  is  what  I  want.  And,  why  not  take  it,  instead  of 
waiting  till  the  other  end  comes,  and  shuts  out  all 
possibility  of  holidays,  work,  or  thought  ?     Why  not  ?  ' 

I  began  a  reckoning  up  of  my  resources.  But  it  was 
a  perfunctory  reckoning.  The  facts  really  did  not  greatly 
interest  me.  After  all,  had  I  not  once  calmly  set  up  my 
establishment  in  the  country,  with  a  total  capital  of 
perhaps  twenty  pounds  ?  Or,  if  one  came  to  that,  had 
I  not  cheerfully  sallied  forth  into  the  world,  armed  only 
with  a  one-pound  note  ?     True,  I  told  myself,  with  some 


THE  LAST  STAGE  327 

bitterness,  the  youth  had  possessed  many  capabilities 
which  the  man  lacked.  Still,  the  reckoning  did  not  greatly 
interest  mc.  And,  while  I  made  it,  my  thoughts  per- 
sistently reverted  to  Australian  bush  scenes  ;  never,  by 
the  way,  to  my  days  of  comparative  prosperity  in  Sydney, 
but  always  to  bush  scenes  :  camp  fires  under  vast  and 
sombre  red  mahogany  trees  ;  lonely  tracks  in  heavily 
timbered  country  ;  glimpses  of  towns  like  Dursley,  seen 
from  the  rugged  tops  of  high  wooded  ridges ;  little 
creeks,  lisping  over  stones  never  touched  by  the  feet  of 
men  or  beasts  ;  tiny  clearings  among  the  hills,  where  a 
spiral  of  blue  smoke  bespoke  an  open  hearth  and  human 
care,  though  no  sound  disturbed  the  peaceful  solitude 
save  the  hum  of  insects  and  the  occasional  cry  of  birds. 

Now  and  again  I  would  allow  myself  to  compose  a 
mental  picture  of  some  peaceful  retreat  upon  the  out- 
skirts of  a  remote  English  village,  where  every  stock  and 
stone  would  have  a  history,  and  every  inhabitant  prove 
a  repository  of  folklore  and  local  tradition.  From  actual 
experience  I  still  knew  very  little  of  rural  England, 
though  of  late  years  I  had  done  some  exploring.  But, 
vicariously,  I  had  lived  much  in  Wcssex,  East  Anglia, 
the  delectable  Duchy,  and  other  parts  of  the  country, 
through  the  works  of  favourite  writers.  And  so  I  did 
dream  at  times  of  an  English  retreat,  but  always  such 
musings  would  end  upon  a  note  of  scepticism.  These 
parts  were  not  far  enough  away  to  furnish  anything 
so  wonderful,  so  epoch-making,  as  my  desired  '  way  out.' 
For  persons  of  my  temperament  one  of  the  commonest 
and  most  disastrous  blunders  of  life  is  the  tacit  assumption 
that  the  thing  easy  of  attainment  and  near  at  hand 
cannot  possibly  prove  the  thing  one  wants. 

Gradually,  then,  the  idea  developed  in  my  mind  that 
the  true  solution  of  my  problems  lay  in  a  working  back 
upon  my  life's  tracks.  My  thoughts  wandered  insistently 
to  the  northern  half  of  the  coast  of  New  South  Wales. 
Even  now   I  could   hardly  say  just  how  much  of  my 


328  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

retrospective  vision  was  genuine  recollection,  and  how 
much  the  glamour  of  youth.  I  tried  to  recall  without 
sentiment  the  effects  produced  upon  me,  for  example, 
by  the  climate  of  that  undoubtedly  favoured  region. 
But  I  am  not  sure  that  my  efforts  gave  results  of  any 
practical  value.  For  practical  purposes  it  is  extremely 
difficult,  in  middle  life,  to  form  reliable  estimates  of  the 
congeniality  to  one's  self  of  any  place  to  which  one  has 
been  a  stranger  since  youth.  Recollections  pitched  in 
such  a  key  as,  '  How  good  one  used  to  feel  when — ,'  or, 

'  How  beautiful  the  country  looked  at when  one — ,' 

are  apt  to  be  very  misleading  for  a  man  of  broken  health 
and  middle  age  ;  the  one  thing  he  cannot  properly  allow 
for  being  the  radical  change  which  has  taken  place  in 
himself.  I  bore  the  name  of  the  lad  who  tramped  the 
roads  from  Myall  Creek  down  to  Dursley.  In  most  other 
respects  I  was  not  now  that  person,  but  somebody 
else — a  totally  different  somebody. 

I  could  not  very  well  talk  of  the  plans  which  now  took 
shape  in  my  mind  to  Sidney  Heron  ;  because,  in  effect, 
he  declined  to  discuss  them. 

'  I  think  it  would  be  a  rather  less  reasonable  step  than 
suicide,  and  I  have  always  declined  to  discuss  suicide. 
One  must  see  some  glimmer  of  rationality  in  a  project  to 
be  able  to  discuss  it,  and  in  this  notion  of  yours  I  can  see 
none,  none  whatever.' 

A  vague  suspicion  that  others  might  be  likely  to  share 
Heron's  view  prevented  my  seeking  the  counsel  of  my 
few  friends  ;  and  also,  I  fear,  tended  rather  to  strengthen 
my  inclinations  to  go  my  own  way.  The  more  I  thought 
upon  it,  the  more  determined  I  became  to  cut  completely 
adrift  from  my  present  life  ;  to  find  a  way  of  escaping 
all  its  insistent  calls  ;  to  get  far  enough  away  from  my 
life  (so  to  say)  to  be  able  calmly  and  thoughtfully  to 
observe  it,  and  seek  to  understand  it.  I  did  not  admit 
this,  but  I  suppose  my  real  aim  was  to  escape  from 
myself. 


THE  LAST  STAGE  329 

'  Your  lease  is  not  a  long  one,  in  any  case,'  I  told  myself. 
'  While  yet  you  have  the  chance  cease  to  be  a  machine, 
and  begin  to  live  as  a  rational,  reasoning  creature.  Be 
done  with  your  petty  striving  after  ends  you  have  for- 
gotten, or  cannot  see,  or  care  nothing  for.  Get  out  into 
the  open,  and  live,  and  think  1 ' 

I  do  not  quite  know  the  basis  of  my  conviction  that  I 
should  never  make  old  bones,  as  the  saying  goes.  The 
life  assurance  offices  certainly  shared  this  view,  for  they 
would  have  none  of  me.  (I  had  long  since  thought  of 
taking  out  what  is  called  a  double  endowment  policy.) 
My  father  died  at  an  early  age,  and  I  had  known  good 
health  hardly  at  all  since  my  first  two  years  in  London. 
The  doctor  who  had  last  examined  me  showed  that  he 
thought  poorly  of  my  heart ;  and,  indeed,  experience 
had  taught  me  that  prolonged  gastric  disorder  is  cal- 
culated to  affect  injuriously  most  organs  of  the  human 
anatomy.  But  the  thinking  and  planning  with  regard 
to  a  radical  change  in  my  life  had  given  me  a  certain 
interest  in  living,  and  that  had  acted  beneficially  upon  my 
health  ;  so  that,  for  the  time  being,  I  felt  better  than  for 
a  long  while  past. 

While  this  fact  gave  a  certain  air  of  unreality  to  the 
resignation,  on  the  grounds  of  ill-health,  from  my  appoint- 
ment as  a  member  of  Arncliffc's  staff,  it  did  not  in  the 
least  affect  my  weariness  of  Fleet  Street  and  all  its  works, 
or  my  determination  to  be  done  with  them.  The  circle 
of  my  intimates  was  so  very  small  that  the  task  of 
explaining  my  intentions  was  not  a  formidable  one,  nor 
even  one  which  I  felt  called  upon  to  perform  with  any 
particular  thoroughness.  I  proposed  to  take  a  voyage 
for  the  good  of  my  health,  and  did  not  know  precisely 
when  I  should  return.  That  I  deemed  sufficient  for 
most  of  those  to  whom  anything  at  all  needed  to  be 
said. 


330  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

II 

There  was  something  strange,  a  dream-like  want  of 
reality,  about  my  final  departure  from  England,  after 
five-and-twenty  years  of  working  life  in  London.  I  am 
not  likely  to  forget  any  incident  of  it ;  but  yet  the  whole 
experience,  both  at  the  time  and  now,  seemed  (and  seems) 
to  be  shrouded  in  a  kind  of  mist,  a  by  no  means  dis- 
agreeable haze  of  unreality,  which  in  a  measure  numbed  all 
my  senses.  More  than  ever  before  I  seemed  to  be,  not 
so  much  living  through  an  experience,  as  observing  it 
from  a  detached  standpoint. 

Investigation  of  my  resources  showed  that  I  had 
accumulated  some  means  during  the  past  dozen  years  of 
simple  living  and  incessant  work,  not  ill-paid.  I  had 
just  upon  two  thousand  pounds  invested,  and  between 
one  and  two  hundred  pounds  lying  to  my  credit  at  call. 
I  told  myself  that  living  alone  and  simply  in  the  bush, 
a  hundred  pounds  in  the  year  would  easily  cover  all  my 
expenses.  That  I  had  anything  like  twenty  years  of 
life  before  me  was  a  supposition  which  I  could  not 
entertain  for  one  moment.  And,  therefore,  I  told  myself 
again  and  again,  with  curious  insistence,  there  really 
was  no  reason  why  I  need  ever  again  work  for  money, 
or  waste  one  moment  over  petty  anxiety  regarding  ways 
and  means.  That  was  a  very  great  boon,  I  told  myself  ; 
the  greatest  of  all  boons,  and  better  fortune  than  in 
recent  years  I  had  dared  to  hope  would  be  mine.  And, 
puzzled  by  the  coldness  with  which  my  inner  mind 
responded  to  these  assurances,  I  would  reiterate  them, 
watching  my  mind  the  while,  and  almost  angered  by  the 
absence  of  elation  and  enthusiasm  which  I  observed  there. 

'  You  have  not  properly  realised  as  yet  what  it  means, 
my  friend,'  I  murmured  to  myself  as  I  walked  slowly 
through  city  alley-ways,  after  booking  my  passage  to 
Sydney  in  a  steam  ship  of  perhaps  seven  times  the 
tonnage  of  the  old  Ariadne  of  my  boyhood's  journey  to 


THE  LAST  STAGE  881 

Australia.  *  But  it  is  the  biggest  thing  you  have  ever 
known.  You  will  begin  to  realise  it  presently.  You  are 
free.  Do  you  hear  ?  An  absolutely  free  man.  You 
need  never  write  another  line  unless  you  wish  it,  and  then 
you  may  write  precisely  what  you  think,  no  more,  no  less. 
You  are  going  right  away  from  this  howling  cockpit, 
and  never  need  set  foot  in  it  again.  You  are  going  to  a 
beautiful  climate,  a  free  life  in  the  open,  with  no  vestige 
of  sham  or  pretence  about  it,  and  long,  secure  leisure  to 
reflect,  to  think,  to  muse,  to  read,  to  do  precisely  what 
you  desire  to  do,  and  nothing  else.  You  are  free — free  ! 
Do  you  hear,  you  tired  hack  ?  Too  tired  to  prick  your 
ears,  eh  ?  Ah,  well,  wait  till  you  've  been  a  week  or  two 
at  sea  I  * 

Very  quietly  I  addressed  my  sluggish  and  jaded  self 
in  this  wise.  Yet  more  than  one  hurried  walker  in 
the  city  ways  looked  curiously  at  me,  as  I  passed  along, 
with  a  wondering  scrutiny  which  amused  me  a  good  deal. 
4  Too  tired  to  prick  your  ears.'  The  suggestion  came 
from  the  contemptuously  sclf-eommiserating  thought 
that  I  was  rather  like  a  worn-out  'bus  horse,  to  whom 
some  benevolent  minor  Providence  was  offering  the 
freedom  of  a  fine  grazing  paddock.  *  You  're  too  much 
galled  and  spavined,  you  poor  devil,  to  be  moved  by 
verbal  assurances.  Wait  till  you  scent  the  breezy  up- 
land, and  your  feet  feel  the  turf.  You  '11  know  better 
what  it  all  means  then.' 

I  had  entertained  vague  notions  of  a  little  farewell 
feast  which  I  would  jrivc  to  Heron,  and,  possibly,  to  one 
or  two  other  friends.  But  from  the  reality  of  such  con- 
vivial enterprise  I  shrank,  when  the  time  came,  preferring 
to  adopt,  even  to  Heron,  the  attitude  of  a  traveller  who 
would  presently  return.  And  when,  as  the  event  proved, 
I  found  myself  the  guest  of  honour  at  a  dinner  presided 
over  by  Arneliffe,  my  embarrassment  pierced  through 
all  sense  of  unreality  and  caused  me  acute  discomfort. 

It  is  odd  that  I,  who  always  have  been  foolishly  sensitive 


332  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

to  blame  (from  professed  critics  and  others),  should  shrink 
so  painfully  from  spoken  praise  or  formal  tribute  of  any 
kind.  It  makes  my  skin  hot  even  to  recall  the  one  or 
two  such  episodes  I  have  faced.  The  wretched  inability 
to  think  where  to  dispose  of  one's  hands  and  gaze  during 
the  genial  delivery  of  after-dinner  encomiums  ;  the  dis- 
tressing difficulty  of  replying  !  Upon  the  whole,  I  think 
I  was  better  at  receiving  punishment.  But  it  is  true, 
the  latter  one  received  in  privacy,  and  was  under  no 
obligation  to  answer  ;  since  replying  to  printed  criticisms 
was  never  a  folly  I  indulged. 

On  the  eve  of  my  departure  from  London  I  did  a 
curious  and  perhaps  foolish  thing,  on  the  spur  of  a 
moment's  impulse.  I  hailed  a  cab,  and  drove  to  Cynthia's 
house  in  Sloane  Street.  Yes,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barthrop  were 
at  home,  and  alone,  the  servant  told  me  ;  and  in  another 
few  moments  I  was  shaking  hands  with  them.  Naturally, 
they  called  my  visit  an  unexpected  pleasure.  It  was,  in 
fact,  not  a  very  pleasurable  quarter  of  an  hour  for  either 
one  of  us.  For  years  I  had  known  nothing  of  their 
interests,  or  they  of  mine.  Our  talk  was  necessarily 
shallow,  and  I  dare  say  Cynthia,  no  less  than  her  husband, 
was  glad  when  I  rose  to  take  my  leave.  The  sweet,  clear 
candour  of  her  face  had  given  place,  I  thought,  to  some- 
thing not  wholly  unlike  querulousness.  But,  I  had  one 
glance  from  her  eyes,  as  she  took  my  hand,  which  seemed 
to  me  to  say  : 

'  God  speed  !     I  understand.' 

It  may  have  meant  nothing,  but  I  like  to  think  it 
meant  understanding. 

From  Cynthia's  house  I  went  on  to  Heron's  lodging, 
for  I  had  a  horror  of  being  '  seen  off,'  and  wished  to  bid 
my  friend  good-bye  in  his  own  rooms.  Our  talk  was 
constrained,  I  remember.  The  stress  of  my  uprooting 
affected  me  far  more  than  I  knew  at  the  time.  Heron 
regarded  my  going  with  grave  disapproval  as  a  crazy 
step.     He  regretted  it,  too  ;    and  such  feelings  always 


THE  LAST  STAGE  383 

tended  to  exaggerate  his  tendency  to  taciturnity,  or  to 
a  harsh,  sardonic  vein  in  speech. 

As  his  way  was  in  such  a  matter,  Heron  calmly  ignored 
my  stipulation  about  being  *  seen  off,'  and  he  was  standing 
beside  the  curb  when  I  stepped  out  of  my  cab  at  Fenchurch 
Street  Station  next  morning.  There  was  nearly  half  an 
hour  to  spare,  we  found,  before  the  boat  train  started. 

4  The  correct  thing  would  be  a  stirrup-cup,'  growled 
Heron. 

4  The  very  thing,'  I  said  ;  conversation  in  such  a  place, 
and  in  such  circumstances,  proving  quite  impossible  for 
me.  By  an  odd  chance  I  recalled  my  first  experiences 
upon  arrival  at  this  same  mean  and  dolorous  station, 
more  than  twenty  years  previously.  4  We  will  go  to  the 
house  in  which  the  '4  genelmun  orduder  bawth,"  '  I  said, 
and  led  Heron  across  into  the  Blue  Boar. 

The  forced  jocularity  of  these  occasions  is  apt  to  be  a 
pitifully  wooden  business,  and  I  suppose  it  was  a  relief 
to  us  both  when  my  train  began  slowly  to  move. 

4  By  the  way — I  had  forgotten,'  said  Heron,  very 
gruffly.  4  Take  this  trifle  with  you —  May  be  of  some 
use.  Good-bye  !  Look  me  up  as  soon  as  you  get  back. 
I  give  you  a  year — or  nearly.' 

He  waved  his  hand  jerkily,  and  was  gone.  He  had  given 
me  the  silver  cigarette-case  which  he  had  used  for  all  the 
years  of  our  acquaintance.  It  bore  his  initials  in  one 
corner,  and  under  these  I  now  saw  engraved  :  4  To  N.  F., 
1890-1910.'  I  do  not  recall  any  small  incident  that 
impressed  me  more  than  this. 

I  still  moved  through  a  mist.  The  voices  of  my 
travelling  companions  seemed  oddly  small  and  remote. 
I  felt  as  though  encased  and  insulated,  in  some  curious 
way,  from  the  everyday  life  about  me.  And  this  mood 
possessed  me  all  through  that  day.  Through  all  the 
customary  bustle  of  an  ocean  liner's  departure,  I  moved 
slowly,  silently,  aloofly,  as  a  somnambulist.  It  was  a 
singular  outsetting,  this  start  upon  my  4  way  out.' 


334   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

III 

In  ordinary  times  my  thrifty  instinct  might  have  led 
me  to  travel  in  the  second  class  division  of  the  great 
steamer.  But  it  had  happened  that  the  sum  I  set  aside 
to  cover  my  travelling  expenses  proved  more  than  ample. 
Several  small  unreckoned  additions  had  been  made  to 
it  during  my  last  month  in  England  ;  and  the  upshot  was 
that  I  decided  to  travel  by  first  saloon,  and  even  to  indulge 
myself  in  the  added  luxury  of  a  single-berth,  upper-deck 
cabin.  For  me  privacy  had  for  long  been  one  of  the  few 
luxuries  I  really  did  value.  Heron  had  mildly  satirised 
my  sybaritic  plans  as  representing  an  ingenious  prepara- 
tion for  hut  life  in  the  Australian  bush,  but  I  had  claimed 
that  comfort  and  privacy  on  the  passage  would  give  me 
a  deserved  holiday,  and  help  put  me  into  good  form  for 
my  fresh  start  oversea.  I  am  not  sure  which  view  was 
the  more  correct. 

At  all  events  I  certainly  was  very  comfortably  placed 
on  board  the  Oronta.  My  books  I  had  deliberately  packed 
in  boxes  marked  '  Not  wanted  on  voyage.'  There  was 
not  so  much  as  a  sheet  of  manuscript  paper  among  my 
cabin  luggage.  Beyond  an  odd  letter  or  two  for  postage 
at  ports  of  call,  and  any  casual  browsing  in  the  ship's 
library  to  which  I  might  feel  impelled  in  my  idle- 
ness, I  was  prepared  to  give  no  thought  to  reading 
or  writing  for  the  present ;  since  for  five-and-twenty 
years  I  had  been  giving  practically  all  my  days  and 
half  my  nights  to  these  pursuits  as  a  working  man 
of  letters. 

I  had  amused  myself  of  late  with  elaborate  anticipations 
of  the  delights  of  idleness  during  this  passage  to  Australia. 
My  ideas  of  sea  travel  were  really  culled  from  recollections 
of  life  on  a  full  rigged  clipper  ship — not  a  steamboat. 
(The  homeward  passage  from  Australia  had  hardly  been 
sea-travel  in  the  ordinary  sense  for  me,  but  rather  six 
weeks  of  clerking  in  an  office.)     In  my  anticipations  of 


THE  LAST  STAGE  385 

the  present  journey,  the  dominant  impressions  had  been 
based  upon  memories  of  the  spotless  cleanliness,  endless 
leisure,  and  primitive  simplicity  of  the  old  time  sailing 
ship  life.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  had  thought  I  should  trot 
about  the  decks  of  the  Oronta  bare-footed,  as  I  and  my 
childish  companions  had  done  aboard  the  Ariadne ; 
but  I  do  mean  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  Ariadne  life 
had  coloured  all  my  thoughts  of  what  the  present  trip 
would  be  for  me. 

And  that,  of  course,  was  a  mistake.  The  smoothly 
ordered  life  of  the  Oronid's  saloon  passengers  was  very 
much  that  of  a  first-class  seaside  hotel,  say  in  Bourne- 
mouth. So  far  from  sprawling  upon  the  snowy  deck  of  a 
forecastle-head,  to  watch  the  phosphorescent  lights  in 
the  water  under  our  ship's  bow,  saloon  passengers  on 
board  the  Oronta  were  not  expected  ever  to  intrude  upon 
the  forward  deck  —  the  ship  had  no  forecastle-head — 
which  was  reserved  for  the  uses  of  the  crew.  Also,  in 
the  conventional  black  and  white  of  society's  evening 
uniform  for  men,  I  suppose  one  does  not  exactly  sprawl 
on  decks,  even  where  these  are  spotless,  as  they  never 
are  on  board  a  steamship. 

The  pleasant  race  of  sailor  men,  of  shell-backs,  such  as 
those  who  swung  the  yards  and  tallied  on  to  the  halliards 
of  the  Ariadne,  may  or  may  not  have  become  extinct, 
and  given  place  to  a  breed  of  sea-going  mechanics,  who 
protect  their  feet  by  means  of  rubber  boots  when  washing 
decks  down  in  the  morning.  In  any  case,  I  met  none  of 
the  old  salted  variety  among  the  Oronid's  multitudinous 
crew.  For  me  there  was  here  no  sitting  on  painted 
spars,  or  tarry  hatch-covers,  or  rusty  anchor-stocks,  and 
listening  to  long,  rambling  '  yams,'  or  '  cuffcrs,'  in  idle 
dog-watches  or  restful  night-watches,  when  the  southern 
Trades  blew  steadily,  and  the  braces  hung  untouched 
upon  their  pins  for  a  week  on  end.  No,  in  the  second 
dog-watch  here,  one  took  a  solemn  constitutional  pre- 
paratory to  dressing  for  dinner ;  and  in  the  first  night- 


336   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

watch  one  smoked  and  listened  willy-nilly  to  polite  small 
talk,  and  (from  the  ship's  orchestra)  the  latest  and  most 
criminal  products  of  New  York's  musical  genius.  I  never 
heard  or  saw  the  process  of  relieving  wheel  or  look-out 
aboard  the  Oronta,  and  long  before  the  beginning  of  the 
middle  watch  I  had  usually  switched  off  for  the  night 
the  electric  reading-lamp  over  my  pillow. 

The  fact  is,  of  course,  that  I  had  never  had  any  kind  of 
training  for  such  a  life  as  that  in  which  I  now  found 
myself.  I  will  not  pretend  to  regret  that,  for,  to  be  frank, 
it  is  a  vapid,  foolish,  empty  life  enough.  But  there  it 
was  ;  one  could  not  well  evade  it,  and  I  had  had  no 
previous  experience  of  anything  at  all  like  it.  The 
most  popular  breakfast-hour  was  something  after  nine. 
Beef-tea,  ices,  and  suchlike  aids  to  indigestion  were 
partaken  of  a  couple  of  hours  later.  Luncheon  was  a 
substantial  dinner.  The  four  o'clock  tea  was  quite  a 
meal  for  most  passengers.  Caviare  and  anchovy  sand- 
wiches were  the  rule  in  the  half  hour  preceding  dinner, 
which  was,  of  course,  a  serious  function.  But  ours  was 
a  valiant  company,  and  supper  was  a  seventh  meal 
achieved  by  many.  The  orchestra  seemed  never  far 
away  ;  games  were  numerous  (here  again  I  had  hopelessly 
neglected  my  education),  and  at  night  there  were 
concerts,  impromptu  dances,  and  balls  that  were  far 
from  being  impromptu. 

It  is,  I  fear,  a  confession  of  natural  perversity,  but 
by  the  time  we  reached  the  Mediterranean  I  was  ex- 
ceedingly restless,  and  inclined  to  nervous  depression. 

I  welcomed  the  various  ports  of  call,  and  was  properly 
ashamed  of  the  unsocial  irritability  which  made  me 
resent  the  feeling  of  being  made  one  of  a  chattering, 
laughing,  high-spirited  horde  of  tourists,  whose  descent 
upon  a  foreign  port  seriously  damaged  whatever  charm 
or  interest  it  might  possess.  At  least  the  trading  residents 
of  these  ports  were  far  more  sensible  than  I,  their  pre- 
ference undoubtedly  causing  them  to  welcome  the  wielders 


THE  LAST  STAGE  337 

of  camera  and  guide-book  in  the  vein  of  '  the  more  the 
merrier.' 

It  was  in  Naples,  outside  the  Villa  Nazionale,  that  it 
fell  to  me  to  rescue  the  elegant  young  widow,  Mrs.  Old- 
castle,  from  the  embarrassing  attentions  of  a  cabman, 
whose  acquaintances  were  already  rallying  about  him  in 
great  force.  So  far  as  speech  went,  my  command  of 
Italian  was  not  very  much  better  than  Mrs.  Oldcastle's 
perhaps  ;  but  at  least  I  had  a  pocketful  of  Italian  silver, 
while  she,  poor  lady,  had  only  English  money.  The 
cabman  was  grossly  overpaid,  of  course,  but  the  main 
point  was  I  silenced  him.  And  then,  her  flushed  cheeks 
testifying  to  her  embarrassment,  Mrs.  Oldcastle  turned 
towards  the  gardens,  and,  in  common  courtesy,  I  walked 
with  her  to  ascertain  if  I  could  be  of  any  further  service. 
The  upshot  was  that  we  strolled  for  some  time,  took  tea  in 
the  Cafe  Umbcrto,  walked  through  the  Museo,  visited 
one  of  the  city's  innumerable  glove-shops,  and  finally, 
still  together,  drove  back  to  the  port  and  rejoined  the 
Oronta. 

As  fellow-passengers  we  had  up  till  this  time  merely 
exchanged  casual  salutations,  Mrs.  Oldcastle  being  one 
of  the  three  who  shared  the  particular  table  in  the  saloon 
at  which  I  sat.  No  one  else  of  her  name  appeared  in  the 
passenger  list,  in  which  I  had  already  read  the  line : 
'  Mrs.  Oldcastle  and  maid.'  I  imagined  her  age  to  be 
still  something  in  the  earliest  thirties,  and  I  had  been 
informed  by  some  obliging  gossip  that  she  was  English 
by  birth  :  that  she  had  married  an  Australian  squatter, 
who  had  died  during  the  past  year  or  so  ;  that  her  per- 
manent home  was  in  England,  but  thai  she  was  just  now 
paying  a  visit  to  the  Commonwealth  upon  some  business 
connected  with  her  late  husband's  estates  there. 

1  You  have  been  most  kind.  Mr.  Freydon,'  she  said. 
;ls  we  stepped  from  the  gangway  to  the  steamer's  deck. 
4  I  was  in  a  dreadful  muddle  by  myself,  and  now,  thanks 
to  you,  I  have  really  enjoyed  my  afternoon  in  Naples. 

v 


338   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Believe  me,  I  am  grateful.  And,'  she  added,  with  a 
faint  blush,  '  I  shall  now  find  even  greater  interest  than 
before  in  your  books.     Au  re  voir  !  ' 

So  she  disappeared,  by  way  of  the  saloon  companion, 
while  I  took  a  turn  along  the  deck  to  smoke  a  cigarette. 
Naturally  I  had  not  mentioned  my  books  or  profession, 
and  I  thought  it  an  odd  chance  that  she  should  know 
them.  She  certainly  had  been  a  most  agreeable  com- 
panion, and 

'  There  's  no  doubt  that  life  in  any  other  country,  no 
matter  where,  does  seem  to  enlarge  the  sympathies  of 
English  people,'  I  told  myself.  '  It  tends  to  mitigate 
the  severity  of  their  attitude  towards  the  narrower  con- 
ventions. If  this  had  been  her  first  journey  out  of  England 
she  might  have  accepted  my  help  in  the  matter  of  the 
cabman,  but  would  almost  certainly  have  felt  called  upon 
to  reject  my  company  from  that  on.  Instead  of  which — 
H'm  !  Well,  upon  my  word,  I  have  enjoyed  the  day 
far  more  than  I  should  have  done  alone.  She  certainly  is 
very  bright  and  intelligent.' 

And  I  nodded  and  smiled  to  myself,  recalling  some  of 
her  comments  upon  certain  figures  in  the  marble  gallery 
of  the  Museo  that  afternoon.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
least  inane  or  parrot-like  about  her  conversation.  I 
experienced  a  more  genial  and  friendly  feeling  than  had 
been  mine  till  then  toward  the  whole  of  my  fellow- 
passengers. 

'  After  all,'  I  told  myself,  '  this  forming  of  hasty 
impressions  of  people,  from  snatches  of  their  talk  and 
mannerisms  and  so  forth,  is  both  misleading  and  un- 
charitable. Here  have  I  been  sitting  at  table  for  a  week, 
and,  upon  my  word,  I  had  no  idea  that  any  one  among 
her  sex  on  board  had  half  so  much  intelligence  as  she  had 
shown  in  these  few  hours  away  from  the  crowd.  The 
crowd — that 's  it.  It 's  misleading  to  observe  folk  in  the 
mass,  and  in  the  confinement  of  a  ship.' 

The  passengers'  quarters  on  an  ocean  liner  are  fully 


THE  LAST  STAGE  389 

equal  to  the  residences  in  a  cathedral  close  as  forcing 
beds  of  gossip  and  scandal.  Thus,  before  we  reached 
the  Indian  Ocean,  I  was  aware  that  the  gossips  had  so  far 
condescended  as  to  link  my  name  with  that  of  one  whom 
I  certainly  rated  as  the  most  attractive  of  her  sex  on 
board.  Indeed,  it  was  Mrs.  Oldcastle  herself  who  drew 
my  attention  to  this,  with  a  little  moue  of  contempt  and 
disgust. 

'  Really,  people  on  board  ship  are  too  despicable 
in  this  matter  of  gossip,'  she  said.  *  It  would  seem 
that  they  are  literally  incapable  of  evolving  any  other 
topic  than  the  doings,  or  supposed  doings,  of  those 
about  them.  And  the  men  seem  to  me  just  as  bad  as  the 
women.' 

IV 

Naturally,  the  fact  that  various  idle  people  chose  to 
use  my  name  in  their  gossip  in  no  sense  disturbed  my 
peace  of  mind.  Neither  had  I  any  particular  occasion 
to  regret  it,  for  Mrs.  Oldcastle's  sake,  since  I  fancy  that 
independent  and  high-spirited  little  lady  took  a  mis- 
chievous pleasure  in  spurring  the  rather  sluggish  imagina- 
tions of  those  about  her.  I  found  a  hint  of  this  in  her 
demeanour  occasionally,  and  could  imagine  her  saying, 
as  she  mentally  addressed  her  fellow-passengers  : 

*  There  !  Here  's  a  choiee  crumb  for  you,  you  silly 
chatterers  !  ' 

With  some  such  thought,  I  am  assured,  she  oeeasionally 
took  my  arm  when  we  chanced  to  paee  the  deck  late 
in  the  evening.  At  least,  I  noted  that  such  actions  on 
her  part  came  frequently  when  we  happened  to  pass  a 
group  of  lady  passengers  in  the  full  glare  of  an  electric 
lamp,  and  rarely  when  we  were  unobserved. 

There  is  doubtless  a  certain  forceful  magic  about  the 
combined  influences  of  propinquity  and  sea  air,  as  these 
arc  enjoyed  by  the  idle  passengers  upon  a  great  ocean 
liner.     They  do,  I  think,  tend  to  advance  intimacy  and 


340   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

accelerate  the  various  stages  of  intercourse  leading 
thereto,  and  therefrom,  as  nothing  else  does ;  more 
particularly  as  affecting  the  relations  between  men  and 
women.  Whilst  unlike  myself  (as  in  most  other  respects) 
in  that  her  social  instincts  were  I  am  sure  well  developed, 
it  happened  that  Mrs.  Oldcastle  did  not  feel  much  more 
drawn  toward  the  majority  of  her  fellow-passengers  than 
I  did.  By  a  more  remarkable  coincidence,  it  chanced 
that  she  had  read  and  been  interested  by  several  of  my 
books.  From  such  a  starting-point,  then,  it  followed 
almost  inevitably  that  we  walked  the  decks  together, 
and  sat  and  talked  together  a  great  deal ;  these  being 
the  normal  daily  occupations  of  people  so  situated,  if 
not  indeed  the  only  available  occupations  for  those  not 
given  over  to  such  delights  as  deck  quoits. 

I  am  very  sure  that  Mrs.  Oldcastle  was  never  what  is 
called  a  flirt,  and  I  believe  the  general  tone  of  our  con- 
versations was  sufficiently  rational.  Yet  I  will  not  deny 
that  there  were  times — on  the  balcony  of  the  Galle  Face 
Hotel  in  Colombo,  and  on  the  Oronta's  promenade  deck 
by  moonlight — when  my  attitude  towards  this  charming 
lady  was  definitely  tinged  by  sentiment.  Withal,  I  doubt 
if  any  raw  boy  could  have  been  more  shy,  in  some  respects, 
than  I ;  for  I  was  most  sensitively  conscious  during  this 
time  of  the  fact  that  I  was  a  very  unsocial,  middle-aged 
man,  of  indifferent  health,  and,  for  that  reason,  un- 
attractive appearance.  Whereas,  Mrs.  Oldcastle  had  all 
the  charms  of  the  best  type  of  '  the  woman  of  thirty,' 
including  the  evident  enjoyment  of  that  sort  of  health 
which  is  the  only  real  preservative  of  youth.  Being  by 
habit  a  lonely  and  self-conscious  creature,  I  had  even 
more  than  the  average  Englishman's  horror  of  making 
myself  ridiculous. 

We  were  off  the  coast  of  south-western  Australia  when 
I  sat  down  in  my  cabin  one  morning  for  the  purpose  of 
seriously  reviewing  my  position,  with  special  reference  to 
recent  conversations  with  Mrs.  Oldcastle.     Certain  things 


THE  LAST  STAGE  341 

I  laid  down  as  premises  which  could  not  be  questioned  ; 
as,  for  example,  that  I  found  this  gracious  little  lady 
(Mrs.  Oldcastle  was  petite  and  softly  rounded  in  figure  ; 
I  am  tall  and  inclined  in  these  days  to  a  stooping,  scraggy 
kind  of  gauntness)  a  most  delightful  companion,  admir- 
ably well-informed,  vivacious,  and  unusually  gifted  in  the 
matter  of  deductive  powers  and  the  sense  of  humour. 
Also,  that  (whatever  the  ship's  chatterboxes  might  say) 
there  had  been  nothing  in  the  faintest  degree  compromis- 
ing in  our  relations  so  far. 

From  such  premises  I  began  to  argue  with  myself  upon 
the  question  of  marriage.  It  is  not  very  easy  to  get 
these  things  down  in  black  and  white.  I  was  perfectly 
sure  that  Mrs.  Oldcastle  was  heartwhole.  And  yet, 
absurdly  presumptuous  as  it  must  look  when  I  write  it, 
I  was  equally  sure  that  it  would  be  possible  for  me  to 
woo  and  win  her.  It  may  seem  odd,  but  this  charming 
woman  did  really  enjoy  my  society.  She  liked  talking 
with  me.  She  found  my  understanding  of  her  ready  and 
sympathetic,  and — what  doubtless  appealed  to  both  of 
us — she  found  that  talk  with  me  had  a  rather  stimulating 
effect  upon  her ;  that  it  drew  out,  in  combating  my  point 
of  view,  the  best  of  her  excellent  qualities.  Using  large 
words  for  lesser  things,  she  laughingly  asserted  that  I 
inspired  her  ;  and  she  added  that  I  was  the  only  person 
she  knew  who  never  bored  or  wearied  her.  Yes,  no  matter 
how  awkward  the  written  words  may  look,  I  know  I  was 
convinced  that,  if  I  should  set  myself  to  do  it,  I  could 
woo  and  win  this  charming  woman,  whose  first  name,  by 
the  way,  I  did  not  then  know. 

I  did  not  know  Mrs.  Oldcastle's  precise  circumstances, 
of  course,  but  there  were  many  ways  in  which  I  gathered 
that  she  was  rather  rich  than  poor.  A  young  Australian 
among  the  passengers  volunteered  to  me  the  information 
that  this  lady  had  been  the  sole  legatee  of  her  late  hus- 
band, who  had  owned  stations  in  South  Australia  and  in 
Queensland  certainly  worth  some  hundreds  of  thousands 


342   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

of  pounds.  Few  men  could  be  less  attracted  than  myself 
by  a  prospect  of  controlling  a  large  fortune  or  extensive 
properties.  But,  as  against  that,  whilst  marriage  with 
any  one  possessed  of  no  means  would  have  been  mere 
folly  for  me,  the  possession  of  ample  means  would  remove 
the  most  obvious  barriers  between  myself  and  matrimony. 

It  was  passing  strange,  I  thought,  that  a  woman  at 
once  so  charming  and  so  rich  should  be  travelling  alone, 
and,  so  far  from  being  surrounded  by  a  court  of  admirers, 
content  to  make  such  a  man  as  myself  almost  her  sole 
companion.  Mrs.  Oldcastle  had  a  mind  at  once  nimble 
and  delicate,  sensitive,  and  quite  remarkably  quick  to 
seize  impressions,  and  to  arrive  at  (mostly  accurate) 
conclusions.  She  had  a  vein  of  gentle  satire,  of  kindly 
and  withal  truly  humorous  irony,  most  rare  I  think 
in  women,  and  quite  delightful  in  a  companion.  I 
learned  that  her  father  (now  dead)  had  been  the  secretary 
of  one  of  the  learned  societies  in  London,  and  a  writer 
of  no  mean  reputation  on  archaeology  and  kindred 
subjects.  Her  surviving  relatives  were  few  in  number, 
of  small  means,  and  resident,  I  gathered,  in  the  west  of 
England.  I  had  told  her  a  good  deal  about  my  London 
life,  and  of  the  circumstances  and  plans  leading  up  to  my 
present  journey.     Her  comment  was  : 

1 1  think  I  understand  perfectly,  I  am  sure  I  sympathise 
heartily,  and — I  give  you  one  more  year  than  your  friend, 
Mr.  Heron,  allowed.  I  prophesy  that  you  will  return  to 
London  within  two  years.' 

'  But,  just  why  ?  '  I  asked.  '  For  what  reasons  will  my 
attempted  "  way  out "  prove  no  more  than  a  way  back  ?  ' 

'  Well,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  explain  that.  No,  I 
don't  think  I  can.  It  may  prove  a  good  deal  more  than 
that,  and  yet  take  you  back  to  London  within  a  couple 
of  years.  Though  I  cannot  explain,  I  am  sure.  It  is 
not  only  that  you  have  been  a  sedentary  man  all  these 
years.  You  have  also  been  a  thinker.  You  think  intel- 
lectual society  is  of  no  moment  to  you.     Well,  you  are 


THE  LAST  STAGE  848 

very  tired,  you  sec.  Also,  bear  this  in  mind  :  in  the  Old 
World,  even  for  a  man  who  lives  alone  on  a  mountain-top, 
there  is  more  of  intellectuality — in  the  very  atmosphere, 
in  the  buildings  and  roads,  the  hedges  and  the  ditches — 
than  the  best  cities  of  the  New  World  have  to  offer.  I 
suppose  it  is  a  matter  of  tradition  and  association.  The 
endeavours  of  the  New  World  are  material ;  a  proportion 
at  least  of  the  Old  World's  efforts  are  abstract  and  ideal. 
You  will  sec.  I  give  you  two  years,  or  nearly.  And  I 
don't  think  for  a  moment  it  will  be  wasted  time' 

Sometimes  our  talk  was  far  more  suggestive  of  the 
intercourse  between  two  men,  fellow-workers  even, 
than  that  of  a  man  and  a  woman.  Never,  I  think,  was 
it  very  suggestive  of  what  it  really  was  :  conversation 
between  a  middle-aged,  and,  upon  the  whole,  broken 
man,  and  a  woman  young,  beautiful,  wealthy,  and  un- 
attached. Love,  in  the  passionate,  youthful  sense,  was 
not  for  me,  of  course,  and  never  again  could  be.  I  think 
I  was  free  from  illusions  on  that  point.  But  I  believed 
I  might  be  a  tolerable  companion  for  such  a  woman  as 
Mrs.  Oldcastle,  and  I  felt  that  her  companionship  would 
be  a  thing  very  delightful  to  me.  After  all,  she  had 
presumably  had  her  love  affair,  and  was  now  a  fully 
matured  woman.  Why  then  should  I  not  definitely 
lay  aside  my  plans — which  even  unconventional  Sidney 
Heron  thought  fantastic  —  and  ask  this  altogether 
charming  woman  to  be  my  wife  ?  Though  I  could  never 
play  the  passionate  lover,  my  aesthetic  sense  was  far 
from  unconscious  or  unappreciativc  of  all  her  purely 
womanly  charm,  her  grace  and  beauty  of  person,  as  apart 
from  her  delightful  mental  qualitii is. 

I  mused  over  the  question  through  an  entire  morning, 
and  when  the  luncheon  bugle  sounded  had  arrived  at 
no  definite  conclusion  regarding  it. 

That  afternoon  it  happened  that,  as  I  sat  chatting 
with  Mrs.  Oldcastle — we  were  now  in  full  view  of  the 
Australian  coast,  a  rather  monotonous  though  moving 


344   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

picture  which  was  occupying  the  attention  of  most 
passengers — our  conversation  turned  upon  the  age 
question ;  how  youth  was  ended  in  the  twentieth  year 
for  some  people,  whilst  with  others  it  was  prolonged  into 
the  thirtieth  and  even  the  fortieth  year  ;  and,  in  the  case 
of  others  again,  seemed  to  last  all  their  lives  long.  Mrs. 
Oldcastle  had  a  friend  in  London  who  had  placidly 
adopted  middle  age  in  her  twenty-fifth  year ;  and  we 
agreed  that  a  white-haired,  rubicund  gentleman  of  fully 
sixty  years,  then  engaged  in  winning  a  quoits  tournament 
before  our  eyes,  seemed  possessed  of  the  gift  of  unending 
youth. 

'  You  know,  I  really  feel  quite  strongly  on  the  point,' 
said  Mrs.  Oldcastle.  '  My  friend,  Betty  Millen,  has 
positively  made  herself  a  frump  at  five-and-twenty. 
We  practically  quarrelled  over  it.  I  don't  think  people 
have  any  right  to  do  that  sort  of  thing.  It  is  not  fair  to 
their  friends.  Seriously,  I  do  regard  it  as  an  actual  duty 
for  every  one  to  cherish  and  preserve  her  youth.' 

'  And  his  youth,  too  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  Certainly,  I  think  there  is  even  less  excuse  for  men 
who  go  out  half-way  to  meet  middle-age.  That  sort 
of  middle-age  really  is  a  kind  of  slow  dying.  Age  is  a 
sort  of  gradual,  piecemeal  death,  after  all.  It  can  be 
fended  off,  and  ought  to  be.  Men  have  more  active  and 
interesting  lives  than  women,  as  a  rule  ;  and  so  have  the 
less  excuse  for  allowing  age  to  creep  upon  them.' 

'  But  surely,  in  a  general  way,  the  poor  fellows  cannot 
help  it  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  agree.  I  have  known  men  old  enough 
to  be  my  father,  so  far  as  years  go,  who  were  splendidly 
youthful.  The  older  a  man  is,  within  limits  of  course,  the 
more  interesting  he  should  be,  and  is,  unless  he  has 
weakly  allowed  age  to  benumb  him  before  his  time. 
Then  he  becomes  merely  depressing,  a  kind  of  drag  and 
lowering  influence  upon  his  friends  ;  and,  too,  a  horridly 
ageing  influence  upon  them.' 


THE  LAST  STAGE  345 

I  nodded,  musing,  none  too  cheerily. 

1  After  all,'  she  continued  vivaciously,  '  science  has 
done  such  a  lot  for  us  of  late.  Practically  every  one 
can  keep  bodily  young  and  fit.  It  only  means  taking  a 
little  trouble.  And  the  rest,  I  think,  is  just  a  question 
of  will-power  and  mental  hygiene.  No,  I  have  no 
patience  with  people  who  grow  old  ;  unless,  of  course,  they 
really  are  very  old  in  years.  I  think  it  argues  either 
stupidity  or  a  kind  of  profligacy — mental,  nervous,  and 
emotional,  I  mean — and  in  cither  case  it  is  very  unfair 
to  those  about  them,  for  there  is  nothing  so  horribly 
contagious.' 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  if  Mrs.  Oldcastle  had  any 
deliberate  purpose  in  this  conversation.  Upon  the  whole, 
I  think  not.  I  remember  distinctly  that  the  responsi- 
bility for  introducing  the  subject  was  mine.  She  might 
have  been  covertly  instructing  me  for  my  own  benefit, 
but  I  doubt  it,  I  doubt  it.  My  faults  of  melancholy  and 
unrestfulncss  had  not  appeared,  I  think,  in  my  inter- 
course with  Mrs.  Oldcastle,  so  cheery  and  enlivening  was 
her  influence.  No,  I  think  these  really  were  her  views, 
and  that  she  aired  them  purely  conversationally,  and 
without  design  or  afterthought,  however  kindly.  Her 
own  youth  she  had  most  admirably  conserved,  and  in  a 
manner  which  showed  real  force  of  character  and  self- 
control  ;  for,  as  I  now  know,  she  had  had  some  trying 
and  wearing  experiences,  though  her  air  and  manner 
were  those  of  a  woman  young  and  high-spirited,  who  had 
never  known  a  care.  As  a  fact  she  had  known  what  it 
was,  for  three  years,  to  fight  against  the  horrid  advance 
of  what  was  practically  a  disease,  and  a  terrible  one,  in 
her  late  husband,  the  chief  cause  of  whose  death  was 
alcoholic  poisoning. 

But,  though  I  am  almost  sure  that  this  particular 
conversation  was  in  no  sense  part  of  a  design  or  meant 
to  influence  mc  in  my  relations  with  her,  yet  it  did,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  serve  to  put  a  period  to  my  musings, 


346  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

and  bring  me  to  a  definite  decision,  which  it  may  be  had 
considerable  importance  for  both  of  us.  Within  forty- 
eight  hours  Mrs.  Oldcastle  was  to  leave  the  Oronta,  her 
destination  being  the  South  Australian  capital.  That 
I  had  become  none  too  sure  of  myself  in  her  company  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  when  I  left  her  that  evening, 
it  was  with  mention  of  a  pretended  headache  and  chill. 
I  kept  my  cabin  next  day,  and  before  noon  on  the  day 
following  that  we  were  due  at  Port  Adelaide.  Mrs.  Old- 
castle expressed  kindly  sympathy  in  the  matter  of  my 
supposed  indisposition,  and  that  rather  upset  me.  I 
could  see  that  my  non-appearance  during  her  last  full 
day  on  board  puzzled  her,  and  I  was  not  prepared  to  part 
from  her  upon  a  pretence. 

'  Why,  the  fact  is,'  I  said,  '  I  don't  think  I  can  accept 
your  sympathy,  because  I  had  no  headache  or  chill.  I 
was  a  little  moody — somewhat  middle-aged,  you  know ; 
and  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  think.' 

*  I  see,'  she  said  thoughtfully,  and  rather  wonderingly. 

'  I  don't  very  much  think  you  do,'  I  told  her,  not  very 
politely.  '  And  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  can  explain — even 
if  it  were  wise  to  try.  I  think,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  '11 
just  say  this  much  :  that  I  greatly  value  your  friendship, 
and  want  to  retain  it,  if  I  can.  It  seemed  to  me  better 
to  have  a  headache  yesterday,  in  case — in  case  I  might 
have  done  anything  to  risk  losing  your  friendship.' 

'  Oh  !  Well,  I  do  not  think  you  are  likely  to  lose  it, 
for  I — I  am  as  much  interested  as  you  can  be  in  preserving 
it.  I  want  you  to  write  to  me.  Will  you  ?  And  I  will 
write  to  you  when  you  have  found  your  hermitage  and 
can  give  me  an  address.  I  will  give  you  my  agent's 
address  in  Adelaide,  and  my  own  address  in  London, 
where  I  shall  expect  a  call  from  you  within  two  years. 
No,  you  will  not  find  it  so  easy  to  lose  touch  with  me, 
my  friend  ;  nor  would  you  if — if  you  had  not  had  your 
headache  yesterday.' 

Upon  that  she  left  me  to  prepare  for  going  ashore.     I 


THE  LAST  STAGE  347 

think  we  understood  each  other  very  well  then.  After 
that  we  had  no  more  than  a  minute  together  for  private 
talk.  During  that  minute  I  do  not  think  I  said  anything 
except  '  Good-bye  !  '  But  I  very  well  remember  some 
words  Mrs.  Oldcastle  said. 

'  You  are  not  to  forget  me,  if  you  please.  Remember, 
I  am  not  so  dull  but  what  I  can  understand — some  head- 
aches. But  they  must  not  be  accompanied  by  "  moody 
middle-age."  Do  please  remember  when  the  hermitage 
palls  that  it  may  be  left  just  as  easily  as  it  was  found. 
And  then,  apart  from  Mr.  Heron  and  others,  there  will 
be  a  friend  waiting  to  see  you  in  London,  and — and  want- 
ing to  see  you.  .  .  .  That 's  my  agent,  the  man  with 
the  green-lined  umbrella.     Good-bye — friend  !  ' 


The  Oronta  was  a  dull  ship  for  me  once  she  had  passed 
Adelaide  ;  duller  even  than  in  the  grey  days  between 
Tilbury  and  Naples.  Adelaide  passed,  an  Australian-bound 
liner  seems  to  have  reached  the  end  of  her  outward 
passage,  and  yet  it  is  not  over.  The  remainder,  for 
Melbourne,  Sydney,  and  Brisbane-bound  folk,  is  apt  to 
be  a  weariness,  even  as  a  train  journey  is,  with  passengers 
coming  and  going  and  trunks  and  boxes  much  in  evidence. 

I  had  lost  my  friend,  though  I  had  called  this  my 
method  of  retaining  her  friendship  ;  and  rightly,  I  dare 
say.  To  be  worthy  of  her  a  man  should  have  left  in  him 
ten  times  my  vitality,  I  thought ;  he  should  be  one  who 
looked  forward  rather  than  back  ;  he  should  bring  to 
their  joint  wayfaring  a  far  keener  zest  for  life  than  my 
years  in  our  modern  Grub  Street  had  left  me.  How 
vapid  was  the  talk  of  my  remaining  fellow-passengers  ; 
how  slow  of  understanding,  and  how  preoccupied  with 
petty  things  they  seemed  !  They  discussed  their  luggage, 
and  questions  regarding  the  proper  amounts  for  stewards' 
tips.     Had  not  some  traveller  called  Adelaide  Australia's 


348   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

city  of  culture  ?  It  seemed  a  pleasant  town.  The  Mount 
Lofty  country  near  by  was  beautiful,  I  gathered.  It 
might  well  have  been  better  for  me  to  have  left  the  ship 
there.  My  musings  were  in  this  sort ;  somewhat  lacking, 
perhaps,  in  the  zest  and  cheerfulness  which  should  pertain 
to  a  new  departure  in  life. 

I  spent  a  few  days  in  Sydney,  chiefly  given  to  walks 
through  the  city  and  suburbs.  There  was  a  certain 
interest,  I  found,  to  be  derived  from  the  noting  of  all  the 
changes  which  a  quarter  of  a  century  had  wrought  in  this 
antipodean  Venice.  Some  of  the  alterations  I  noticed 
were  possibly  no  more  than  reflections  of  the  changes 
time  had  wrought  in  myself  ;  for  these — the  modifications 
which  lie  between  ambitious  youth  and  that  sort  of 
damaged  middle-age  which  carries  your  dyspeptic  farther 
from  his  youth  than  ever  his  three  score  years  and  ten 
take  the  hale  man — had  been  radical  and  thorough  with 
me.  But,  none  the  less,  Sydney's  actual  changes  were 
sufficiently  remarkable. 

At  the  spot  whereon  I  made  my  entry  into  society 
(as  I  thought),  in  the  studio  of  Mr.  Rawlence,  the  artist, 
stood  now  an  imposing  red  building  of  many  storeys, 
given  over,  I  gathered,  to  doctors  and  dentists.  The 
artist,  I  thought,  was  probably  gathered  to  his  fathers 
ere  this,  as  my  old  fellow-lodger,  Mr.  Smith,  most  certainly 
must  have  been.  Mr.  Foster,  the  editor  of  the  Chronicle, 
had  died  some  years  previously.  The  offices  and  premises 
of  Messrs.  J.  Canning  and  Son,  my  first  employers  in 
Sydney,  were  as  though  I  had  left  them  but  yesterday, 
unchanged  in  any  single  respect.  But  the  head  of  the 
firm,  as  I  had  known  him,  was  no  more  ;  and  his  son, 
of  whom  I  caught  one  glimpse  on  the  stairway,  had 
grown  elderly,  grey,  and  quite  surprisingly  stout. 

There  was  some  interest  for  me  in  prowling  about  the 
haunts  of  my  youth ;  but  to  be  honest,  I  must  admit 
there  was  no  pleasure,  even  of  the  mildly  melancholy  kind. 
However  beautiful  their  surroundings,  no  New  World 
cities  are  in  themselves  beautiful  or  picturesque.     That 


THE  LAST  STAGE  849 

which  is  new  in  them  is — new,  and  well  enough  ;  and 
that  which  is  not  new  or  newish  is  apt  to  be  rather  shabby 
than  venerable.  I  apprehend  that  Old  World  cities 
would  be  quite  intolerably  shabby  and  tumble-down 
but  for  the  fact  that,  when  they  were  built,  joint  stock 
companies  were  unknown,  and  men  still  took  real  pride 
in  the  durability  of  their  work.  We  have  made  wondrous 
progress,  of  course,  and  are  vastly  cleverer  than  our 
forbears  ;  but  for  the  bulk  of  the  work  of  our  hands, 
there  is  not  very  much  to  be  said  when  its  newness  has 
worn  off. 

I  thought  seriously  for  an  hour  or  more  of  going  to 
Durslcy  to  visit  its  Omniferacious  Agent,  and,  more 
particularly,  perhaps  to  see  his  wife  ;  possibly  even  to 
settle  in  the  neighbourhood  of  that  pretty  little  town. 
Then  I  reckoned  up  the  years,  and  decided  against  this  step. 
The  Omnigerentual  One  would  be  an  old  man,  if  alive  ; 
and  his  wife —  I  recalled  her  fragile  figure  and  hopeless 
invalidism,  and  thought  I  would  sooner  cherish  my 
recollections  of  fivc-and-twenty  years  than  put  them 
to  the  test  of  inquiry. 

On  the  fourth  or  fifth  day  I  drove  with  my  bags  to  the 
handsome  new  railway  station  which  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  rambling  old  Red  fern  terminal  I  remembered,  and 
look  train  for  the  north.  I  found  I  had  no  wish,  at 
present,  to  visit  Wcrrina,  Myall  Creek,  or  Livorno  Bay, 
and  my  journey  came  to  an  end  a  full  fifty  miles  south 
of  St.  Peter's  Orphanage.  Here,  within  five  miles  of  the 
substantial  township  of  Peterborough,  I  came,  with 
great  ease,  upon  the  very  sort  of  place  I  had  in  mind  : 
a  tiny  cottage  of  two  rooms,  with  a  good  deep  verandah 
before,  and  a  little  lean-to  kitchen,  or.  in  the  local  phrase, 
skillion,  behind  ;  two  rough  slab  sheds,  a  few  fruit  trees 
past,  their  prime,  an  acre  of  paddock,  and  beyond  that 
illimitable  bush. 

I  bought  the  tiny  place  for  a  hundred  and  five  pounds, 
influenced  thereto  in  part  by  the  fact  that  the  daughter 
of  its  owner,  a  small  '  cockatoo  '  farmer's  wife,  lived  no 


350  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away ;  and  was  willing,  for 
a  modest  consideration,  to  come  in  each  day  and  '  do  ' 
for  me,  to  the  extent  of  cooking  one  hot  meal,  washing 
dishes,  and  tidying  my  little  gunyah.  Thus,  simply  and 
swiftly,  I  became  a  landed  proprietor,  and  was  able  to 
send  to  Sydney  for  my  heavy  chattels,  knowing  that, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  actually  possessed  in  my 
own  right  a  roof  to  shelter  them  withal,  though  it  were 
only  of  galvanised  iron.  (The  use  of  stringy  bark  for  the 
roofing  of  small  dwellings  seemed  to  have  ceased  since  my 
last  sojourn  in  these  parts,  the  practical  value  of  iron 
for  rain-water  catchment  having  thrust  aside  the  cooler 
and  more  picturesque  material.) 

In  the  township  of  Peterborough  I  secured,  for  the  time 
being,  the  services  of  a  decent,  elderly  man  named  Petch — 
Isaiah  Petch — and  together  we  set  to  work  to  make  a 
garden  before  my  little  house  ;  to  fence  it  in  against  the 
attacks  of  bandicoots  and  wandering  cattle,  and  to 
effect  one  or  two  small  repairs,  additions  and  improve- 
ments to  the  place.  This  manual  work  interested  me, 
and,  I  dare  say,  bettered  my  health,  though  I  was  ashamed 
to  note  the  poor  staying  power  I  had  as  compared  with 
Isaiah  Petch,  who,  whilst  fully  ten  years  my  senior,  was 
greatly  my  superior  in  toughness  and  endurance. 

VI 

Wages  for  labour  had  soared  and  soared  again  since 
my  day  in  Australia,  even  for  elderly  and  '  down-along 
more  than  up-along '  men  like  Isaiah  Petch.  (The 
phrase  is  his  own.)  And,  in  any  case,  I  told  myself,  it 
was  not  for  the  likes  of  me  to  keep  hired  men.  And  so, 
when  the  garden  was  made,  and  the  other  needed  work 
done,  I  parted  with  Isaiah — a  good,  honest,  homespun 
creature,  rich  in  a  sort  of  bovine  contentment  which 
often  moved  me  to  sincere  envy — and  was  left  quite  alone 
in  my  hermitage,  save  for  the  morning  visit  of  perhaps 


THE  LAST  STAGE  351 

a  couple  of  hours,  which  the  worthy  Mrs.  Blades  under- 
took to  pay  for  the  purpose  of  tidying  my  rooms  and 
cooking  a  midday  meal  for  me.  Her  coming  between 
nine  and  ten  each  morning,  and  going  between  twelve 
and  one,  formed  the  chief,  if  not  the  only,  landmarks  in 
the  routine  of  my  quiet  days.  So  it  was  when  I  parted 
with  Isaiah.  So  it  is  to-day,  and  so  it  is  like  to  remain — 
while  I  remain. 

Parting  with  Isaiah  Petch  made  a  good  deal  of  differ- 
ence to  me  ;  more  difference  than  I  should  have  supposed 
it  possible  that  anything  connected  with  so  simple  a  soul 
could  have  made.  The  plain  fact  is,  I  suppose,  that  while 
Isaiah  worked  about  the  place  here,  I  worked  with  him, 
in  my  pottering  way.  I  developed  quite  an  interest 
in  my  bit  of  garden,  because  of  the  very  genuine  interest 
felt  in  the  making  of  it  by  Isaiah.  I  had  worked  at  it 
with  him  ;  but,  once  he  had  left  it,  I  regret  to  say  the 
ordered  ranks  of  young  vegetables  tempted  me  but  little, 
and  soon  became  disordered,  for  the  reason  that  the  war 
I  waged  against  the  weeds  was  but  a  poor,  half-hearted 
affair.  And  so  it  was  with  other  good  works  we  had 
begun  together.  I  gave  up  my  cow,  because  it  seemed 
far  simpler  to  let  Mrs.  Blades  have  her  for  nothing,  on 
the  understanding  that  she  brought  me  the  daily  trifle 
of  milk  I  needed.  I  left  the  feeding  and  can  of  my  few- 
fowls  to  Mrs.  Blades,  and  finally  made  her  a  present  of 
them,  after  paying  several  bills  for  their  pollard  and 
grain.  It  seemed  easier  and  cheaper  to  let  Mrs.  Blades 
supply  the  few  eggs  I  needed. 

My  horse  Punch  I  kept,  because  we  grew  fond  of  each 
other,  and  the  surrounding  bush  afforded  ample  grazing 
for  him.  When  Punch  began  his  habit  of  gently  biting 
my  arm  or  shoulder  every  time  I  led  him  hire  or  there, 
he  sealed  his  own  fate  ;  and  now  will  have  to  continue 
living  with  his  tamely  uninteresting  master  willy  nilly. 
Lovable,  kindly,  spirited  beast  that  he  is,  I  never  could 
have  afforded   the  purchase  of  his  like  but  for  a  slight 


352   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

iflaw  in  his  near  foreleg,  which  in  some  way  spoils  his 
action,  from  your  horsey  man's  standpoint,  and  pleases 
me  greatly,  because  it  brought  the  affectionate  rascal 
within  my  modest  reach.  I  give  him  very  little  work, 
and  rather  too  much  food ;  but  he  has  to  put  up  with  a 
good  deal  of  my  society,  and  holds  long  converse  with  me 
daily,  I  suppose  because  he  knows  no  means  of  terminating 
an  interview  until  that  is  my  pleasure. 

One  piece  of  outdoor  work  I  have  continued  religiously, 
for  the  reason,  no  doubt,  that  I  love  wood  fires,  even  in 
warm  weather.  I  never  neglect  my  wood-stack,  the 
foundations  of  which  were  laid  for  me  by  Isaiah  Petch. 
Every  day  I  take  axe  and  saw  and  cut  a  certain  amount 
of  logwood.  My  hearth  will  take  logs  of  just  four  feet 
in  length,  and  I  feed  it  royally.  The  wood  costs  nothing ; 
when  burning  it  is  highly  aromatic,  and  I  like  to  be  pro- 
fuse with  it ;  I  who  can  recall  an  interminable  London 
winter,  in  a  garret  full  of  leaks  and  draught  holes,  in  which 
the  only  warming  apparatus,  besides  the  poor  lamp  that 
lighted  my  writing-table,  was  a  miserable  oil-stove,  which 
I  could  not  afford  to  keep  alight  except  for  the  brief 
intervals  during  which  it  boiled  my  kettle  for  me. 

Yes,  I  know  every  speck  and  every  cranny  of  my 
cavernous  hearth,  and  it  is  rarely  that  it  calls  for  any 
kindling  wood  of  a  morning.  As  a  rule  a  puff  from  the 
bellows  and  a  fresh  log — one  of  the  little  fellows,  no 
thicker  than  your  leg,  which  I  split  for  this  purpose — is 
enough  to  set  it  on  its  way  flaming  and  glowing  for  another 
day  of  comforting  life.  I  often  tell  myself  it  would  never 
do  for  me  to  think  of  giving  up  my  hermitage  and  return- 
ing to  England,  because  of  Punch  and  my  ever-glowing 
hearth ;  even  if  there  were  no  other  reasons,  as  of  course 
there  are. 

For,  whilst  the  comparative  zestfulness  of  the  first 
months,  when  I  worked  with  Isaiah  Petch  to  improve 
my  rough-hewn  little  hermitage,  may  not  have  endured, 
yet  are  there  many  obvious  and  substantial  advantages 


THE  LAST  STAGE  353 

for  me  in  the  life  I  lead  here,  in  this  little  bush  back- 
water, where  the  few  human  creatures  who  know  of 
my  existence  regard  me  as  a  poor,  harmless  kind  of 
crank,  and  no  one  ever  disturbs  the  current  of  my 
circling  thoughts.  Never  was  a  life  more  free  from 
interruptions  from  without.  And  if  disturbance  ever 
emanates  from  within,  why,  clearly  the  fault  must  be 
ray  own,  and  should  serve  as  a  reminder  of  how  vastly 
uneasy  my  life  would  surely  be  in  more  civilised  sur- 
roundings, where  interruptions  descend  upon  one  from 
without,  thick  as  smuts  through  the  window  of  a  London 
garret — save  where  the  garreteer  cares  to  do  without  air. 
Here  I  sit  with  a  noble  fire  leaping  at  one  end  of  my 
unlincd,  wooden  room,  and  wide  open  doors  and  windows 
all  about  me.  As  regards  climate,  in  New  South  Wales 
a  man  may  come  as  near  as  may  be  to  eating  his  cake 
and  having  it  too. 

And,  for  that  long-sought  mental  restfulness,  content, 
peace,  whatever  one  may  call  it,  is  not  my  present  task  a 
long  step  towards  its  attainment  ?  A  completed  record 
of  the  fitful  struggle  one  calls  one's  life,  calmly  studied 
in  the  light  of  reason  untrammelled  by  sentiment,  never 
interrupted  by  the  call  of  affairs  ;  surely  that  should 
bring  the  full  measure  of  self-comprehension  upon  which 
peace  is  based  !  To  doubt  that  contentment  lies  that 
way  would  be  wretchedness  indeed.  But  why  should 
I  doubt  what  the  world's  greatest  sages  have  shown  ? 
True,  my  own  experience  of  life  has  suggested  that  con- 
tentment is  rather  the  monopoly  of  the  simplest  souls, 
whose  understanding  is  very  limited  indeed.  A  stinging 
thought  this,  and  apt  to  keep  a  man  wakeful  at  night, 
if  indulged.  But  I  think  it  should  not  be  indulged.  To 
doubt  the  existence  of  a  higher  order  of  content  than  that 
of  the  blissfully  ignorant  is  to  brush  aside  as  worthless 
and  meaningless  the  best  that  classic  literature  has  to 
offer  us,  and — such  doubts  are  pernicious  things. 

Living  here  in  this  clean,  sweet  air,  so  far  removed 

z 


354   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

from  the  external  influences  which  make  for  fret  and 
stress,  my  bodily  health,  at  all  events,  has  small  excuse  for 
failure  one  would  suppose.  And,  indeed,  at  first  it  did 
seem  to  me  that  I  was  acquiring  a  more  normal  kind  of 
hardihood  and  working  efficiency  in  this  respect.  But  I 
regret  to  say  the  supposition  was  not  long-lived.  Four 
or  five  months  after  my  arrival  here  I  took  to  my  bed 
for  a  fortnight,  as  the  result  of  one  of  the  severest  attacks 
I  have  ever  had  ;  and  in  the  fifteen  months  which  have 
elapsed  since  then,  my  general  health  has  been  very 
much  what  it  was  during  the  years  before  I  left  London, 
while  the  acute  bouts  of  neuritis  and  gastric  trouble, 
when  they  have  come,  have  been  worse,  I  think,  than 
those  of  earlier  years. 

But,  none  the  less,  without  feeling  it  as  yet,  I  may  be 
building  up  a  better  general  condition  in  this  quiet  life  ; 
and  the  bitterly  sharp  attacks  that  seize  me  may  repre- 
sent no  more  than  a  working  off  of  arrears  of  penalties. 
I  hope  it  may  be  so,  for  persistent  ill-health  is  a  dismal 
thing.  But,  as  against  that,  I  think  I  am  sufficiently 
philosophic — how  often  that  blessed  word  is  abused 
by  disgruntled  mankind — to  avoid  hopes  and  desires  of 
too  extravagant  a  sort,  and,  by  that  token,  to  be  safe- 
guarded from  the  sharper  forms  of  disappointment. 

Contentment  depends,  I  apprehend,  not  upon  obtaining 
possession  of  this  or  that,  but  upon  the  wise  schooling 
of  one's  desires  and  requirements.  My  aims  and  desires 
in  life — behind  the  achievement  of  which  I  have  always 
fancied  I  discerned  Contentment  sitting  as  a  goddess, 
from  whose  beneficent  hands  come  all  rewards — have 
naturally  varied  with  the  passing  years.  In  youth,  I 
suppose,  first  place  was  given  to  Position.  Later,  Art 
stood  highest ;  later,  again,  Intellect ;  then  Morality  ; 
and,  finally,  Peace,  Tranquillity  —  surely  the  most 
modest,  and  therefore  practical  and  hopeful  of  all  these 
goals. 


THE  LAST  STAGE  355 

VII 

The  portion  of  my  days  here  in  the  bush  which  I  like 
best  (when  no  bodily  ill  plagues  me)  is  the  very  early 
morning.  Directly  daylight  comes,  while  yet  the  sun's 
Australian  throne  is  vacant — all  hung  about  in  cool, 
pearly  draperies — I  slip  a  waterproof  over  my  pyjamas, 
having  first  rolled  up  the  legs  of  these  garments  and 
thrust  my  feet  into  rubber  half-boots,  and  wander  out 
across  the  verandah,  down  through  the  garden  patch,  over 
the  road,  with  its  three-inch  coating  of  sandy  dust,  and 
into  the  bush  beyond,  where  every  tiny  leaf  and  twig 
and  blade  of  grass  holds  treasure  trove  and  nutriment  in 
the  form  of  glistening  dewdrops. 

The  early  morning  in  the  coastal  belt  of  New  South 
Wales  is  rapture  made  visible  and  responsive  to  one's 
faculties  of  touch,  and  smell,  and  hearing.  And  yet — 
no.  I  believe  I  have  used  the  wrong  word.  It  would  be 
rapture,  belike,  in  a  Devon  coomb,  or  on  a  Hampshire 
hill-top.  Here  it  is  hardly  articulate  or  sprightly  enough 
for  rapture.  Rather,  I  should  say,  it  is  the  perfection 
of  pellucid  serenity.  It  lacks  the  full-throated  eternal 
youthfulness  of  dawn  in  the  English  countryside  ;  but, 
for  calmly  exquisite  serenity,  it  is  matchless.  To  my 
mind  it  is  grateful  as  cold  water  is  to  a  heated,  tired 
iMxly.  It  smooths  out  the  creases  of  the  mind,  and  is 
wonderfully  calming.  Yet  it  has  none  of  the  intimate, 
heart-stirring  kindliness  of  England's  rural  scenery.  No 
untamed  land  has  that.  Nature  may  be  grand,  inspiring, 
bracing,  terrifying,  what  you  will.  She  is  never  simply 
kind  and  loving — whatever  the  armchair  poets  may  say. 
A  countryside  must  be  humanised,  and  that  through 
many  successive  generations,  before  it  can  lay  held  upon 
your  heart  by  its  loving-kindness,  and  draw  moisture 
from  your  eyes.  It  is  not  the  emotionless  power  of  Nature, 
but  man's  long-suffering  patient  toil  in  Nature's  realm  that 
gives  our  English  countryside  this  quality. 


356  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

But  my  rugged,  unkempt  bush  here  is  nobly  serene  and 
splendidly  calm  in  the  dawn  hours.  It  makes  me  feel 
rather  like  an  ant,  but  a  well-doing  and  unworried  ant. 
And  I  enjoy  it  greatly.  As  I  stride  among  the  drenching 
scrub,  and  over  ancient  logs  which,  before  I  was  born, 
stood  erect  and  challenged  all  the  winds  that  blow,  I 
listen  for  the  sound  of  his  bell,  and  then  call  to  my  friend 
Punch : 

'  Choop !  Choop  !  Choop,  Punch !  Come  away,  boy ! 
Come  away  !     Choop  !     Choop  !  ' 

But  not  too  loudly,  and  not  at  all  peremptorily.  For 
I  do  not  really  want  him  to  come,  or,  at  least,  not  too 
hurriedly.  That  would  cut  my  morning  pleasure  short. 
No ;  I  prefer  to  find  Punch  half  a  mile  from  home,  and 
I  think  the  rascal  knows  it.  For  sometimes  I  catch 
glimpses  of  him  between  the  tree-trunks — we  have 
myriads  of  cabbage-tree  palms,  tree-ferns,  and  bangalow 
palms,  among  the  eucalypti  hereabouts — and  always,  if 
we  are  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  from  home,  it 
is  his  rounded  haunches  that  I  see,  and  he  is  walking 
slowly  away  from  me,  listening  to  my  call,  and  doubt- 
less grinning  as  he  chews  his  cud — a  great  ruminator 
is  my  Punch. 

At  other  times,  when  it  chances  that  dawn  has  found 
him  a  full  half  mile  from  home,  he  does  not  walk  away 
from  me,  but  stands  behind  the  bole  of  a  great  tree, 
looking  round  its  side,  listening,  waiting,  and  studiously 
refraining  from  the  slightest  move  in  my  direction,  until 
I  am  within  twenty  paces  of  him.  Then,  with  a  loud 
whinny,  rather  like  a  child's  '  Peep-bo  !  '  in  intent,  I 
think,  he  will  walk  quickly  up  to  me,  wishing  me  the  top 
of  the  morning,  and  holding  out  his  head  for  the  halter 
which  I  always  carry  on  these  occasions. 
Mln  the  first  months  of  our  acquaintance  I  used  to 
clamber  on  to  his  back  forthwith,  and  ride  home.  He 
knows  I  cannot  quite  manage  that  now,  and  so  walks 
with  me,  rubbing  at  my  shoulders  the  while  with  his 


THE  LAST  STAGE  357 

grass-stained,  dewy  lips,  till  we  see  a  suitable  stump  or 
log,  from  which  I  can  conveniently  mount  him.  Then, 
with  occasional  thrusts  round  of  his  head  to  nuzzle  one 
of  my  ankles,  or  to  snatch  a  tempting  bit  of  greenery, 
he  carries  me  home,  and  together — for  he  superintends 
this  operation  with  the  most  close  and  anxious  care, 
his  foreparts  well  inside  the  feed-house — we  mix  his 
breakfast,  first  in  an  old  four-gallon  oil-can,  and  then 
in  the  manger,  and  I  sit  beside  him  and  smoke  a  cigarette 
till  the  meal  is  well  under  weigh. 

I  have  made  Punch  something  of  a  gourmand,  and  each 
meal  has  to  contain,  besides  its  foundation  of  wheaten 
chaff  and  its  piece  de  risistance  of  cracked  maize,  a 
flavouring  of  oats — say,  three  double  handfuls — and  a 
thorough  sprinkling,  well  rubbed  in,  of  bran.  If  the 
proportions  are  wrong,  or  any  of  the  constituents  of  the 
meal  lacking,  Punch  snorts,  whinnies,  turns  his  rump  to 
the  manger,  and  demands  my  instant  attention.  I  was 
intensely  amused  one  day  when,  sitting  in  the  slab  and 
bark  stable,  through  whose  crevices  seeing  and  hearing 
are  easy,  to  overhear  the  mail-man  telling  Mrs.  Blades 
that,  upon  his  Sam,  I  was  for  all  the  world  like  an  old 
maid  with  her  canary  in  the  way  I  dry-nursed  that 
blessed  horse ;  by  ghost,  I  was  !  He  was  particularly 
struck,  was  this  good  man,  by  my  insane  practice  of 
sometimes  taking  Punch  for  a  walk  in  the  bush,  as  though 
he  were  a  dog,  and  without  ever  mounting  him. 

Punch  provided  for,  my  own  ablutions  arc  performed 
in  the  wood-shed,  where  I  have  learned  to  bathe  with 
the  aid  of  a  sponge  and  a  bucket  of  water,  and  have  a 
shower  worked  by  a  cord  connected  with  a  perforated 
nail-can.  By  this  time  my  billy-can  is  probably  splutter- 
ing over  the  hearth,  and  I  make  tea  and  toast,  after 
possibly  eating  an  orange.  And  so  the  day  is  fairly 
started,  and  I  am  free  to  think,  to  read,  to  write,  or  to 
enjoy  idleness,  after  a  further  chat  with  Punch  when 
turning   him   out    to   graze.     My    wood-chopping   I   do 


358   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

either  before  breakfast  or  towards  the  close  of  the  day  ; 
the  latter,  I  think,  more  often  than  the  former.  It 
makes  a  not  unpleasant  salve  for  the  conscience  of  a 
mainly  idle  man,  after  the  super-fatted  luxury  of  after- 
noon tea  and  a  biscuit  or  scone. 

An  Australian  bushman  would  call  my  tea  no  more 
than  water  bewitched,  and  my  small  pinch  of  China 
leaves  in  an  infuser  spoon  but  a  mean  mockery  of  his 
own  generous  handful  of  black  Indian  leaves,  well  stewed 
in  a  billy  to  a  strength  suited  for  hide-tanning.  Of  this 
inky  mixture  he  will  cheerfully  consume  (several  times  a 
day)  a  quart,  as  an  aid  to  the  digestion  of  a  pound  or  two 
of  corned  beef,  with  pickles  and  other  deadly  things,  none 
of  which  seem  to  do  him  much  harm.  And  if  they  should, 
the  result  rather  amuses  and  interests  him  than  otherwise  ; 
for,  of  all  amateur  doctors  (and  lawyers),  he  is  the  most 
enthusiastic  and  ingenuous.  He  will  tell  you  (with  the 
emphatic  winks,  nods,  and  gestures  of  a  man  of  research 
who  has  made  a  wonderful  discovery,  and,  out  of  the 
goodness  of  his  heart,  means  to  let  you  into  the  secret) 
of  some  patent  medicine  which  is  already  advertised, 
generally  offensively,  in  every  newspaper  in  the  land  ;  and, 
having  explained  how  it  made  a  new  man  of  him,  will 
very  likely  insist  with  kindly  tyranny  upon  buying  you  a 
flagon  of  the  costly  rubbish. 

'  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Freydon,  you  won't  know  yourself 
after  takin'  a  bottle  or  two  of  Simpkins's  Red  Marvel.' 
I  agree  cordially,  well  assured  that  in  such  a  case  I  should 
not  care  to  know  myself.  '  Why,  there  was  a  chap  down 
Sydney  way,  Newtown  I  think  it  was  he  lived  in,  or  it 
mighter  bin  Balmain.  Crooil  bad  he  was  till  they  put 
him  on  to  the  Red  Marvel.  Fairly  puzzled  the  doctors, 
he  did,  an'  all  et  up  with  sores,  somethin'  horrible.  Well, 
I  tell  you,  I  wouldn't  be  without  a  bottle  in  my  camp. 
Sooner  go  without  'baccy.  An',  not  only  that,  but  it 's 
such  comfortin'  stuff  is  the  Red  Marvel.  Every  night 
o'  my  life  I  takes  a  double  dose  of  it  now  ;  sick  or  sorry, 


THE  LAST  STAGE  359 

well  or  ill — an'  look  at  me  !  I  useter  to  swear  by  B lick's 
Backache  Pills  ;  but  now,  I  wouldn't  have  them  on  me 
mind.  They  're  no  class  at  all,  be  this  stuff.  Give  me 
Simpkins's  Red  Marvel,  every  time,  an'  I  don't  care  if  it 
snows  !  You  try  it,  Mr.  Freydon.  I  was  worsen  you 
afore  I  struck  it ;  an'  now,  why,  I  wouldn't  care  to  call 
the  Queen  me  aunt !  '  (His  father  before  him,  in  Queen 
Victoria's  reign,  had  no  doubt  used  this  quaint  phrase, 
and  it  was  not  for  him  to  alter  it  because  of  any  such 
trifling  episodes  as  the  accession  of  other  sovereigns.) 

VIII 

I  gladly  abide  by  my  word  of  yesterday.  The  portion 
of  my  days  here  in  the  bush  which  I  like  best  is  the  dawn 
time.  But  the  nights  have  their  good,  and — well — and 
their  less  good  times,  too.  My  evening  meal  is  apt  to  be 
sketchy.  There  is  a  special  vein  of  laziness  in  me  which 
makes  me  shirk  the  setting  out  of  plates  and  cutlery, 
and,  even  more,  their  removal  when  used  ;  despite  the 
fact  that  I  have  had,  perhaps,  rather  more  experience  than 
most  men  of  catering  for  myself.  Hence,  the  evening 
meal  is  apt  to  be  sketchy  ;  a  furtive  and  far  from  creditable 
performance,  with  the  vessels  of  the  midday  meal  for  its 
background. 

Then,  with  a  sense  of  relief,  I  shut  the  door  upon  that 
episode,  and  the  evidences  thereof,  and  betake  me  to  the 
room  which  is  really  mine  ;  where  the  big  hearth  is,  and 
the  camp-bed,  and  the  writing-table,  the  books,  and  the 
big  Ceylon-made  lounge-chair.  The  first  evening  pipe 
is  nearly  always  good  ;  the  second  may  be  flavoured  with 
rnelaneholy,  but  yet  is  seldom  unplcasing.  The  third — 
there  arc  decent  intervals  between — bears  me  company 
in  bed,  with  whatever  book  may  be  occupying  me  at  the 
time.  The  first  hour  in  the  big  chair  and  the  first  hour 
in  bed  are  both  exceedingly  good  when  I  am  anything 
like  well.     I  would  not  say  which  is  the  better  of  the  two, 


360  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

lest  I  provoke  a  Nemesis.  Both  are  excellent  in  their 
different  ways. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten  I  can  be  asleep  within  half  an 
hour  of  dousing  the  candle,  and  it  is  seldom  I  wake 
before  three  hours  have  passed.  After  that  come  hours 
of  which  it  is  not  worth  while  to  say  much.  They  are 
far  from  being  one's  best  hours.  And  then,  more  often 
than  not,  will  come  another  blessed  two  hours,  or  even 
more,  of  unconsciousness,  before  the  first  purple  grey 
forecasts  of  a  new  day  call  me  out  into  the  bush  for  my 
morning  lesson  in  serenity  :  Nature's  astringent  message 
to  egoists  and  all  the  sedentary,  introspective  tribe, 
that  bids  us  note  our  own  infinite  insignificance,  our  utter 
and  microscopical  unimportance  in  her  great  scheme  of 
things,  and  her  sublime  indifference  to  our  individual 
lives ;  to  say  nothing  of  our  insectile  hopes,  fears, 
imaginings,  despairs,  joys,  and  other  forms  of  mental 
and  emotional  travail. 

It  may  or  may  not  be  evidence  of  mental  exhaustion 
or  indolence,  but  I  notice  that  I  have  experienced  here  no 
inclination  to  read  anything  that  is  new  to  me.  I  have 
read  a  good  deal  under  this  roof,  including  a  quite  sur- 
prising amount  of  fiction  ;  but  nothing,  I  think,  that  I 
had  not  read  before.  During  bouts  of  illness  here,  I  have 
indulged  in  such  debauches  as  the  rereading  of  the 
whole  of  Hardy,  Meredith,  Stevenson,  W.  E.  Henley's 
poems,  and  the  novels  of  George  Gissing,  Joseph  Conrad, 
and  H.  G.  Wells.  Some  of  the  better  examples  of  modern 
fiction  have  always  had  a  special  topographical  appeal 
to  me.  I  greatly  enjoy  the  work  of  a  writer  who  has  set 
himself  to  treat  a  given  countryside  exhaustively.  This, 
more  even  than  his  masterly  irony,  his  philosophy,  his 
remarkable  fullness  of  mind  and  opulent  allusiveness,  has 
been  at  the  root  of  the  immense  appeal  Hardy's  work 
makes  to  me.  ('  Q,'  in  a  different  measure,  of  course, 
makes  a  similar  appeal.)  Let  the  Wessex  master  forsake 
his  countryside,  or  leave  his  peasants  for  gentlefolk,  and 


THE  LAST  STAGE  361 

immediately  my  interest  wanes,  his  wonderful  appeal 
fails. 

Since  I  have  been  here  in  the  bush  I  have  understood, 
as  never  before,  the  great  and  far-reaching  popularity  of 
Thomas  Hardy's  work  among  Americans.  He  gives  so 
much  which  not  all  the  wealth,  nor  all  the  genius  of  that 
inventive  race,  can  possibly  evolve  out  of  their  New  World. 
But,  upon  the  whole,  I  ought  not  to  have  brought  my 
fine,  tall  rank  of  Hardy's  here,  still  less  to  have  pored  over 
them  as  I  have.  There  is  that  second  edition  of  Far  From 
the  Madding  Crowd  now,  with  its  delicious  woodcuts 
by  H.  Paterson.  It  is  dated  1874 — I  was  a  boy  then, 
newly  arrived  in  this  antipodean  land — and  the  frontis- 
piece shows  Gabriel  Oak  soliciting  Bathsheba  :  '  Do  you 
happen  to  want  a  shepherd,  ma'am  ?  '  No,  I  cannot  say 
my  readings  of  Hardy  have  been  good  for  me  here.  There 
is  Jude  the  Obscure  now,  a  masterpiece  of  heart-bowing 
tragedy  that.  And,  especially  insidious  in  my  case, 
there  are  passages  like  this  from  that  other  tragedy  in  the 
idyllic  vein,  The  Woodlanders  : 

Winter  in  a  solitary  house  in  tlie  country,  withou, 
society,  is  tolerable,  nay,  even  enjoyable  and  delightful, 
given  certain  conditions  ;  but  these  are  not  Hie  con- 
ditions which  attach  to  the  life  of  a  professional  man 
who  drops  down  into  such  a  place  by  mere  accident. 
.  .  .  They  are  old  association — an  almost  exhaustive 
biographical  or  historical  acquaintance  with  every 
object,  animate  and  inanimate,  within  the  observer's 
horizon.  He  must  know  all  about  those  invisible  ones 
of  the  days  gone  by,  whose  feet  have  traversed  the  fields 
which  look  so  grey  from  his  windows  ;  recall  whose 
creaking  plough  has  turned  those  sods  from  time  to  time; 
whose  hands  planted  the  trees  that  form  a  crest  to  t/ie 
opposite  hill ;  whose  horses  and  hounds  have  torn 
through  that  undencood ;  what  birds  affect  that  par- 
ticular brake  ;  what  bygone  domestic  dramas  of  love, 
jealousy,  revenge,  or  disappointment  have  been  enacted 


362   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

in  the  cottages,  the  mansions,  the  street,  or  on  the  green. 
The  spot  may  have  beauty,  grandeur,  salubrity,  con- 
venience ;  but  if  it  lack  memories  it  will  ultimately  pall 
upon  him  who  settles  there  without  opportunity  of 
intercourse  with  his  kind. 

No,  that  was  not  discreet  reading  for  a  dyspeptic  man 
of  letters,  alone  in  a  two-roomed  gunyah  in  the  midst 
of  virgin  bush,  in  a  land  where  the  respectably  old  dates 
back  a  score  of  years,  the  historic,  say,  fifty  years,  and 
'  the  mists  of  antiquity '  a  bare  century.  One  recollection 
inevitably  aroused  by  such  a  passage  brought  to  mind 
words  comparatively  recent,  spoken  by  Mrs.  Oldcastle : 

'  In  the  Old  World,  even  for  a  man  who  lives  alone  on 
a  mountain-top,  there  is  more  of  intellectuality — in  the 
very  atmosphere,  in  the  buildings  and  roads,  the  hedges 
and  the  ditches — than  the  best  cities  of  the  New  World 
have  to  offer.' 

Quite  apart  from  its  grimly  ironic  philosophy,  the 
topography,  the  earthy  quality — '  take  of  English  earth 
as  much  as  either  hand  may  rightly  clutch  ' — of  the 
Wessex  master's  work  makes  it  indigestible  reading  for  an 
exile  of  more  than  thirty  or  forty ;  unless,  of  course,  he 
is  of  the  fine  and  robust  type,  whose  minds  and  constitu- 
tions function  with  the  steadiness  of  a  good  chronometer, 
warranted  for  all  climes  and  circumstances. 

But  this  mention  of  Hardy  reminds  me  of  a  curious 
literary  coincidence  which  I  stumbled  upon  a  few  months 
ago.  For  me,  at  all  events,  it  was  a  discovery.  I  was 
reading,  quite  idly,  the  story  which  should  long  since 
have  been  dramatised  for  the  stage,  The  Trumpet  Major, 
written,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the  early  'nineties.  I  came 
to  chapter  xxiii.,  which  opens  in  this  wise  : 

Christmas  had  passed.  Dreary  winter  with  dark 
evenings  had  given  place  to  more  dreary  winter  with 
light  evenings.  Rapid  thaws  had  ended  in  rain,  rain 
in  wind,  wind  in  dust.  Showery  days  had  come — the 
season  of  pink  dawns  and  white  sunsets.  .  .  . 


THE  LAST  STAGE  368 

This  reading  was  part  of  my  Hardy  debauch.  A  week 
or  two  earlier  I  had  been  reading  what  I  think  was  his 
first  book,  written  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  The 
Trumpet  Major.  I  refer  to  Desperate  Remedies ;  with 
all  its  faults,  an  extraordinarily  full  and  finished  pro- 
duction for  a  first  book.  Now,  with  curiosity  in  my  very 
finger-tips,  I  turned  over  the  pages  of  this  volume,  reread 
no  more  than  a  week  previously.  I  came  presently  upon 
chapter  xii.,  and,  following  upon  its  first  sentence,  read 
these  words  : 

Christmas  had  passed;  dreary  winter  with  dark  evenings 

had  given  place  to  more  dreary  winter  with  light  evenings. 

Thaws  had  ended  in  rain,  rain  in  wind,  wind  in  dust. 

Showery  days  had  come — the  period  of  pink  dawns  and 

white  sunsets.  .  .  . 

That  (with  a  quarter  of  a  century,  the  writing  of  many 
books,  and  the  building  up  of  a  justly  great  and  world- 
wide reputation  between  the  two  writings)  strikes  me  as 
a  singular,  and,  in  a  way,  pleasing  literary  coincidence  ; 
singular,  as  a  freak  of  subconscious  memory  for  words, 
pleasing,  as  a  verification  in  mature  life  of  the  writer's 
comparatively  youthful  observations  of  natural  pheno- 
mena. I  wonder  if  the  author,  or  any  others  among  his 
almost  innumerable  readers,  have  chanced  to  light  upon 
this  particular  coincidence  1 

Another  writer  of  fiction,  whose  bent  of  mind,  if  sombre, 
was  far  from  devoid  of  ironical  humour,  has  occupied  a 
deal  of  my  leisure  here — George  Gissing.  I  rank  him 
very  high  among  the  Victorian  novelists.  His  work 
deserves  a  higher  place  than  it  is  usually  accorded  by 
the  critics.  He  was  a  fine  story-teller,  and  for  me  (though 
tin  ir  topographical  appeal  is  not,  perhaps,  very  obvious) 
his  books  are  very  closely  packed  with  living  human 
interest.  But  again,  for  such  an  one  as  myself,  so 
situated,  I  would  not  say  that  a  course  of  Gissing  formed 
particularly  wholesome  or  digestible  reading.  Here,  for 
example,  is  a  passage  associated  in  my  recollection  with 


364   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

a  night  which  was  among  the  worst  I  have  spent  in  this 
place  : 

He  thought  of  the  wretched  millions  of  mankind 
to  whom  life  is  so  barren  that  they  must  needs  believe  in 
a  recompense  beyond  the  grave.     For  that  he  neither 
looked  nor  longed.     The  bitterness  of  his  lot  was  thai  this 
world  might  be  a  sufficing  Paradise  to  him,  if  only  he 
could  clutch  a  poor  little  share  of  current  coin.  .  .  . 
No,  for  such  folk  as  I,  that  was  not  good  reading.     But 
— and  let  this  be  my  tribute  to  an  author  who  won  my 
very   sincere   esteem   and   respect — when   morning   had 
come,  after  a  bad  night,  and  I  had  had  my  dawn  lesson 
from  Nature,  and  my  converse  with  Punch,  I  turned  me 
to  another  volume  of  Gissing,  and  with  a  quieter  mind 
read  this  : 

Below  me,  but  far  off,  is  the  summer  sea,  still,  silent, 
its  ever  changing  blue  and  green  dimmed  at  the  long 
limit  with  luminous  noon-tide  mist.  Inland  spreads  the 
undulant  vastness  of  the  sheep-spotted  downs  ;  beyond 
them  the  tillage  and  the  woods  of  Sussex  weald,  coloured 
like  to  the  pure  sky  above  them,  but  in  deeper  tint.  Near 
by,  all  but  hidden  among  trees  in  yon  lovely  hollow,  lies 
an  old,  old  hamlet,  its  brown  roofs  decked  with  golden 
lichen  ;  I  see  the  low  church  tower,  and  the  little  grave- 
yard about  it.  Meanwhile,  high  in  the  heaven,  a  lark  is 
singing.  It  descends,  it  drops  to  its  nest,  and  I  could 
dream  that  half  the  happiness  of  its  exultant  song  was 
love  of  England.  .  .  . 

That  is  his  little  picture  of  a  recollection  of  summer. 
And  then,  returning  to  his  realities  of  the  moment,  this 
miscalled  4  savage '  pessimist  and  '  pitiless  realist ' 
continues  thus  : 

It  is  all  but  dark.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  must 
have  been  writing  by  a  glow  of  firelight  reflected  on  my 
desk  ;  it  seemed  to  me  the  sun  of  summer.  Snow  is 
still  falling.  I  can  see  its  ghostly  glimmer  against 
the  vanishing  sky.     To-morrow  it  will  be  thick  upon 


THE  LAST  STAGE  365 

my  garden,  and  percliance  for  several  days.  But  when 
it  melts,  when  it  melts,  it  will  leave  the  snow-drop.  The 
crocus,  too,  is  waiting,  down  there  under  the  white  mantle 
which  warms  the  earth. 

But  I  would  not  say  that  even  this  was  well-chosen 
reading  for  me — here  in  my  bush  hermitage — any  more 
than  is  that  masterpiece  of  Kipling's  later  concentration, 
An  Habitation  Enforced,  followed  by  its  inimitable 
Recall : 

I  am  the  land  of  their  fathers, 

In  me  the  virtue  stays ; 
I  will  bring  back  my  children 
After  certain  days. 

Till  I  make  plain  the  meaning 

Of  all  my  thousand  years — 
Till  I  fill  their  hearts  with  knowledge, 

While  I  fill  their  eyes  with  tears. 

No,  nor  yet,  despite  its  healing  potency  in  its  own 
place,  the  same  master  craftsman's  counsel  to  the  whole 
restless,  uneasy,  sedentary  brood  among  his  countrymen  : 

Take  of  English  earth  as  much 
As  either  hand  may  rightly  clutch, 
In  the  taking  of  it  breathe 
Prayer  for  all  who  lie  beneath — 
Ixiy  that  earth  upon  your  heart. 
And  your  sickness  shall  depart  ! 
It  shall  mightily  restrain 
Over  busy  hand  and  brain, 
Till  thyself  restored  shall  prove 
By  uhat  grace  the  heavens  do  move. 

None  of  these  good  things  are  wholly  good  for  me, 
here  and  now,  because — because,  for  example,  they  recall 
a  prophecy  of  Mrs.  Oldcastle's,  and  the  grounds  upon 
which  she  based  it. 

Who  should  know  better  than  I,  that  if  my  life-long 
mental  restlessness  chances,  when  I  am  less  well  than 
usual,  or  darkness  is  upon  me,  to  take  the  form  of 
nostalgia,  with  clinging,  pulling  thoughts  of  England — 


366  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

never  of  the  London  I  knew  so  well,  but  always  of  the 
rural  England  I  knew  so  little,  from  actual  personal 
experience,  yet  loved  so  well — who  should  know  better 
than  I  (sinning  against  the  light  in  the  writing  of  this 
unpardonably  involved  sentence)  that  such  restlessness, 
such  nostalgia,  are  no  more  based  upon  reason  than  is 
a  bilious  headache.  The  philosopher  should,  and  does, 
scorn  such  an  itch  of  the  mind,  well  knowing  that  were 
he  foolish  enough  to  let  it  affect  his  actions  or  guide  his 
conduct  he  would  straightway  cease  to  be  a  philosopher, 
and  become  instead  a  sort  of  human  shuttlecock,  for 
ever  tossing  here  and  there,  from  pillar  to  post,  under 
the  unreasoning  blows  of  that  battledore  which  had  been 
his  mind.  Nay,  rather  the  strappado  for  me,  at  any 
time,  than  abandonment  to  foolishness  so  crass  as  this 
would  be. 

Over  and  above  all  this  I  deliberately  chose  my  '  way 
out,'  and  it  is  good.  I  am  assured  the  life  of  this  my 
hermitage  is  one  better  suited  to  the  man  I  am  to-day 
than  any  other  life  I  could  hope  to  lead  elsewhere.  The 
mere  thought  of  such  a  fate  as  a  return  to  the  maelstrom 
of  London  journalism — is  it  not  a  terror  to  me,  and  a 
thing  to  chill  the  heart  like  ice  ?  Here  is  peace  all  about 
me,  at  all  events,  and  never  a  semblance  of  pretence  or 
sham.  And  if  I,  my  inner  self,  cannot  find  peace  here, 
where  peace  so  clearly  is,  what  should  it  profit  me  to  go 
seeking  it  where  peace  is  not  visible  at  all,  and  where  all 
that  is  visible  is  turmoil,  hurry,  and  fret  ? 

Australia  is  a  good  land.  Its  bush  is  beautiful ;  its  men 
and  women  are  sterling  and  kindly,  and  its  children  more 
blessed  (even  though,  perhaps,  rather  more  indulged) 
than  the  children  of  most  other  lands.  For  the  wage- 
earner  who  earns  his  living  by  his  hands,  and  purposes 
always  to  do  so,  I  deliberately  think  this  is  probably 
the  best  country  in  all  the  world.  It  is  his  own  country. 
He  rules  it  in  every  sense  of  the  word  ;  and  there  is  no 
class,  institution,  or  individual  exercising  anyjmastery 


THE  LAST  STAGE  367 

over  him.  Millionaires  are  scarce  here,  and  so  perhaps 
are  men  brilliant  in  any  direction.  But  really  poor 
folk,  hungry  folk,  folk  who  must  fight  for  bare  sustenance, 
are  not  merely  scarce — they  are  unknown  in  this  land. 

That  is  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  say  for  any  country, 
and  surely  one  which  should  materially  affect  the  peace 
of  mind  of  every  thinking  creature  in  it.  Whilst  very 
human,  and  hence  by  no  means  perfect,  the  people  of 
this  country  have  about  them  a  pervasive  kindliness, 
which  is  something  finer  than  simple  good  nature  and 
hospitality.  The  people  as  a  whole  are  sincerely  possessed 
by  guiding  ideals  of  kindness  and  justice.  The  means  by 
which  they  endeavour  to  bring  about  realisation  of  their 
ideals  arc,  I  believe,  fundamentally  wrong  and  mistaken 
in  a  number  of  cases.  Their  '  ruling '  class  is  naturally 
new  to  the  task  of  ruling,  recruited  as  it  is  from  trade 
union  ranks.  But  they  truly  desire,  as  a  people,  that 
every  person  in  their  midst  should  be  given  a  fair,  sporting 
chance  in  life.  '  A  fair  thing  !  '  In  three  words  one  has 
the  national  ideal,  and  who  shall  say  that  it  is  not  an 
admirable  one,  remembering  that  its  foundation  and 
mainspring  are  kindness,  and  if  not  justice,  then  desire  for 
justice  ? 

4  All  this  is  very  worthy,  no  doubt,  but  deadly  dull. 
Docs  it  not  make  for  desperate  attenuation  on  the 
artistic  and  intellectual  side  ?  Beautifully  level  and 
even,  I  dare  say  ;  like  a  paving  stone,  and  about  as  inter- 
esting.' 

Thus,  my  old  friend  Heron  in  a  recent  letter.  The 
dear  fellow  would  smile  if  I  told  him  he  was  a  member 
of  England's  privileged  classes.  But  it  is  true,  of  course. 
Well,  Australia  has  no  privileged  classes — and  no  sub- 
merged class.  I  admit  that  the  highest  artistic  and 
intellectual  levels  of  the  New  World  are  greatly  lower 
than  the  highest  artistic  and  intellectual  levels  of  the 
Old  World.  But  what  of  the  average  level,  speaking  of 
the    populace   as    a   whole  ?     How  infinitely   higher  are 


368   THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Australia's  lowest  levels  than  the  depths,  the  ultimate 
pit  in  Merry  England  ! 

I  am  an  uneasy,  restless  creature,  mentally  and  bodily. 
I  have  not  quite  finished  as  yet  the  task,  deliberation  upon 
which,  when  it  is  completed,  is  to  bring  me  rest  and  self- 
understanding.  Vague  hungers  by  the  way  are  incidents 
of  no  more  permanent  importance  than  one's  periodical 
colds  in  the  head.  To  complain  of  intellectual  barrenness 
in  any  given  environment  must  surely  be  to  confess 
intellectual  barrenness  in  the  complainant.  I  am  well 
placed  here  in  my  bush  hermitage.  And,  in  short, 
Je  suis,  je  reste  ! 

IX 

It  is  just  thirteen  days  since  I  sat  down  before  these 
papers,  pen  in  hand  ;  thirteen  days  since  I  wrote  a  word. 
A  few  months  ago  I  suppose  such  delay  would  have 
worried  me  a  good  deal.  To-day,  for  some  reason,  the 
fact  seems  quite  unimportant,  and  does  not  distress  me 
in  the  least.  Have  I  then  advanced  so  far  towards  self- 
comprehension  as  to  have  attained  content  of  mind  ? 
Or  is  this  merely  the  mental  lethargy  which  follows  bodily 
weakness  and  exhaustion  ?     I  do  not  know. 

I  have  been  ill  again.  It  is  a  nuisance  having  to  send 
for  a  doctor,  because  his  fees  are  extremely  high,  and  he 
has  to  come  a  good  long  way.  Also,  I  do  not  think  the 
good  man's  visits  are  of  the  slightest  service  to  me. 
I  have  been  living  for  twelve  days  exclusively  upon  milk  ; 
a  healing  diet,  I  dare  say,  but  I  have  come  to  weary  of 
the  taste  and  sight  of  it,  and  its  effect  upon  me  is  the 
reverse  of  stimulation.  But  I  am  in  no  wise  inclined  to 
cavil,  for  I  am  entirely  free  from  pain  at  the  moment ; 
the  weather  is  perfectly  glorious,  and  my  neighbours, 
Blades  and  his  wife,  are  in  their  homely  fashion  extremely 
kind  to  me. 

My  one  source  of  embarrassment  is  that  Ash,  the 
timber-getter  in  the  camp  across  the  creek,  is  continually 


THE  LAST  STAGE  369 

bringing  me  expensive  bottles  of  Simpkins's  Red  Marvel, 
his  genuine  kindness  necessitating  not  only  elaborate 
pretences  of  regularly  consuming  his  pernicious  specific 
for  every  human  ill,  from  consumption  and  '  bad  legs  ' 
to  snake-bites,  but  also  periodical  discussions  with  him 
of  all  my  confounded  symptoms — a  topic  which  wearies 
me  almost  to  tears.  Indeed,  I  prefer  the  symptoms  of 
Ash's  friend  in  Newtown — or  was  it  Balmain  ? — who  was 
4  all  et  up  with  sores,  something  horrible.' 

Notwithstanding  the  brilliant  sunshine  and  cloudless 
skies  of  this  month,  the  weather  has  been  exquisitely 
fresh  and  cool,  and  my  log  fire  has  never  once  been 
allowed  to  go  out,  Blades,  with  the  kindness  of  a  man 
who  can  respect  another's  fads,  having  kept  me  richly 
supplied  with  logs.  Mrs.  Blades  has  been  feeding  Punch 
for  me,  and  at  least  twice  each  day  that  genial  rascal  has 
neighed  long  and  loudly  at  the  slip-rails  by  the  stable, 
as  I  believe  in  friendly  greeting  to  me.  I  shall,  no  doubt, 
presently  feel  strong  enough  to  walk  out  and  have  a  talk 
with  Punch. 

My  last  letter  from  Mrs.  Oldcastle,  written  no  more 
than  a  month  ago — the  mail  service  to  Australia  is 
improving — tells  me  that  the  park  in  London  is  looking 
lovely,  all  gay  with  spring  foliage  and  blooms.  She  says 
that  unless  I  intend  being  rude  enough  to  falsify  her 
prophecy,  I  must  now  be  preparing  to  pack  my  bags  and 
book  my  passage  home.  Home !  Well,  Ash,  whose 
father  like  himself  was  born  here,  calls  England  '  Home,' 
I  find.  This  is  one  of  the  most  lovable  habits  of  the 
children  of  our  race  all  over  the  world. 

But  obviously  it  would  be  a  foolish  and  stultifying 
thing  for  me  to  think  of  leaving  my  hermitage.  I  am 
not  rich  enough  to  indulge  in  what  folk  here  call  '  A  trip 
Home.'  And  as  for  finally  withdrawing  from  my  *  way 
out,'  and  returning  to  settle  in  England,  how  could 
such  a  step  possibly  be  justified  upon  practical  grounds  ? 
The  circumstances  which  led  me  to  leave  England  are 

2a 


370  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

fundamentally  as  they  were.  Mrs.  Oldcastle—  But  all 
that  was  thoroughly  thought  out  before  she  left  the 
Oronta  at  Adelaide  ;  and  to-day  I  am  less — less  able, 
shall  I  say,  than  I  was  then  ? 

It  is  singular  that  these  few  days  in  bed  should  have 
stolen  so  much  of  my  strength.  The  mere  exertion,  if 
that  it  may  be  called,  of  writing  these  few  lines  leaves  me 
curiously  exhausted  ;  yet  they  have  been  written  extra- 
ordinarily slowly  for  me.  My  London  life  made  me  a 
quick  writer.  I  wonder  if  leisure  and  ease  of  mind  would 
have  made  me  a  good  one  ! 

I  shall  lay  these  papers  aside  for  another  day.  Perhaps 
even  for  two  or  three  days.  Blades  has  kindly  moved 
my  bed  for  me  to  the  side  of  the  best  window,  which  faces 
north-east ;  in  the  Antipodes,  a  very  pleasant  aspect. 
I  shall  not  actually  '  go  to  bed '  again  in  the  day-time, 
but  I  think  I  will  lie  on  the  bed  beside  that  open  window. 
Sitting  upright  at  the  table  here  I  feel,  not  pain,  but  a 
kind  of  aching  weakness  which  I  escape  when  lying  down. 

And  yet,  though  not  worried  about  it,  I  am  rather 
sorry  still  farther  to  neglect  this  desultory  task  of  mine, 
even  for  a  day  or  two.  The  tree-tops  are  tossing  bravely 
in  the  westerly  wind  this  morning,  and  it  is  well  that  my 
banana  clump  has  all  the  shelter  of  the  gunyah,  or  its 
graceful  leaves  would  suffer.  The  big  cabbage  palm 
outside  the  verandah  makes  a  curious,  dry,  parchment- 
like crackling  in  the  wind.  But  the  three  silver  tree-ferns 
have  a  cool,  swishing  note,  very  pleasing  to  the  ear ; 
while  for  the  bush  trees  beyond,  theirs  is  the  steady  music 
of  the  sea  on  a  sandy  beach.  I  fancy  this  wind  must  be 
a  shade  too  boisterous  to  be  good  for  Blades's  orange 
orchard.  At  all  events  it  brings  a  strong  citrus  scent 
this  way,  after  bustling  across  the  side  of  Blades's  hill. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it  that  this  mine  hermitage 
is  very  beautifully  situated.  Any  man  of  discernment 
should  be  well  content  here  to  bide.  The  air  about  me 
is  full  of  a  nimble  sweetness,  and  as  utterly  free  from 


THE  LAST  STAGE  371 

impurity  as  the  air  one  breathes  in  mid-ocean.  More,  it 
is  impregnated  by  the  tonic  perfumes  of  all  the  myriad 
aromatic  growths  that  surround  my  cottage.  Men  say 
the  Australian  bush  is  singularly  soulless  ;  starkly  de- 
void of  the  elements  of  interest  and  romance  which  so 
strongly  endear  to  the  hearts  of  those  dwelling  there 
the  countryside  in  such  Old  World  lands  as  the  England 
of  my  birth.  Maybe.  Yet  I  have  met  men,  both  native- 
born  and  alien-born,  who  have  dearly  loved  Australia ; 
loved  the  land  so  well  as  to  return  to  it,  even  after  many 
days. 

England !  Of  all  the  place  names,  the  names  of 
countries  that  the  world  has  known,  was  ever  one  so 
simply  magic  as  this — England  ?  Surely  not.  How  the 
tongue  caresses  it !  In  the  past  it  has  always  seemed 
to  me  that  the  question  of  a  man's  place  of  birth  was 
infinitely  more  significant  and  important  than  the 
mere  matter  of  where  he  died,  of  where  his  bones  were 
laid.  And  yet,  even  that  matter  of  the  resting-place  for 
a  man's  bones.  .  .  .  Undoubtedly,  there  is  magic  in 
English  earth.  England  !  Thank  God  I  was  born  in 
England  ! 


372  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

Here  the  written  record  of  my  friend's  life  ends,  though 
it  clearly  was  not  part  of  his  design  that  this  should  be 
its  end.  Thanks  to  Mrs.  Blades,  I  have  a  record  of  the 
date  of  Freydon's  last  writing.  It  came  two  days  before 
his  own  end.  He  died  alone,  and,  by  the  estimate  of  the 
doctor  from  Peterborough,  at  about  daybreak.  The 
doctor  thought  it  likely  that  he  passed  away  in  his  sleep  ; 
of  all  ends,  the  one  he  would  have  chosen. 

So  far  as  my  own  observation  informs  me,  the  death 
of  Nicholas  Freydon  was  noted  by  no  more  than  three 
English  journals  :  two  of  the  oldest  morning  newspapers 
in  London,  and  that  literary  weekly  which,  despite  the 
commercial  fret  and  fume  of  our  time,  has  so  far  preserved 
itself  from  the  indignity  of  any  attempted  blending  of 
books  with  haberdashery  or  4  fancy  goods.'  Had  Freydon 
died  in.  England,  I  apprehend  that  a  somewhat  larger 
circle  of  newspaper  readers  might  have  been  advertised 
of  the  fact.  But  I  would  not  willingly  be  understood  to 
suggest  any  kind  of  reproach  in  this. 

It  would  probably  be  correct  to  say  that  the  writings 
of  Nicholas  Freydon  never  have  reached  the  many-headed 
public,  whose  favour  gives  an  author's  name  weight  in 
circulating  libraries  and  among  the  gentlemen  of  '  The 
Trade.'  He  had  no  illusions  on  this  point,  and  of  late 
years  at  all  events  cherished  no  dreams  of  fame  or 
immortality.  But  it  is  equally  correct  to  say  that  he 
was  genuinely  a  man  of  letters,  and  there  is  a  circle  of 
more  or  less  fastidious  readers  who  are  aware  that  every- 
thing published  under  Freydon's  name  was,  from  the 
literary  standpoint,  worth  while. 


EDITOR'S  NOTE  873 

For  me  the  news  of  Freydon's  end  had  something  more 
than  literary  significance.  There  was  a  period  during 
which  we  shared  an  office  room,  and  I  recall  with  peculiar 
satisfaction  the  fact  that  it  was  no  kind  of  friction  or 
difficulty  between  us  which  brought  an  end  to  that 
working  companionship.  The  much  longer  period  over 
which  our  friendship  extended  was  marred  by  no  quarrel, 
nor  even  by  any  lapse  into  mutual  indifference.  And 
it  may  be  admitted,  in  all  affectionate  respect,  that 
Freydon  was  not  exactly  of  those  who  are  said  to  '  get 
on  with  any  one.' 

In  the  matter  of  my  own  recent  journey  to  Australia, 
the  thing  which  I  looked  forward  to  with  keenest  interest 
was  the  opportunity  I  thought  it  would  afford  me  of 
seeing  and  talking  with  Freydon,  in  his  chosen  retreat  in 
the  Antipodes,  and  judging  of  his  welfare  there.  And 
then,  on  the  eve  of  my  departure,  came  the  news  that  he 
was  no  more. 

Under  the  modest  roof  which  had  sheltered  him,  on 
the  coast  of  northern  New  South  Wales,  I  presently  spent 
two  quiet  and  thoughtful  weeks,  given  for  the  most  part 
to  the  perusal  of  his  papers,  which,  along  with  his  other 
personal  effects,  he  had  bequeathed  to  me.  (His  remain- 
ing property  was  left  to  the  friend  whose  name  is  given 
here  as  Sidney  Heron.) 

Before  I  left  that  lonely,  sunny  spot,  I  had  practically 
decided  to  pass  on  to  such  members  of  the  reading  world 
as  might  be  interested  therein  what  seemed  to  me  the 
more  salient  and  important  of  these  papers  :  the  bulky 
document  which  forms  a  record  of  its  writer's  life.  After- 
wards, as  was  inevitable,  came  much  reflection,  and  at 
times  some  hesitancy.  But,  when  all  is  done,  and  the 
proof  sheets  lie  before  me,  my  conviction  is  that  I  decided 
rightly  out  there  in  the  bush  ;  and  that  something  is 
inherent  in  these  last  writings  of  Nicholas  Freydon's 
which,  properly  understood,  demands  and  deserves  the 
test  of  publication.     Therefore,  they  arc  made  available  to 


374  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

the  public,  in  the  belief  that  some  may  be  the  richer  and 
the  kindlier  for  reading  them. 

But,  for  revising,  altering,  dove-tailing,  or  shaping 
these  papers,  with  a  view  to  the  attainment  of  an  orthodox 
form  of  literary  production,  whether  in  the  guise  of  auto- 
biography, life-story,  dramatic  fiction,  or  what  not,  I 
desire  explicitly  to  disclaim  all  thought  of  such  a  pre- 
tension. As  I  see  it,  that  would  have  been  an  impertinence. 
I  cannot  claim  to  know  what  Freydon's  intentions  may 
have  been  regarding  the  ultimate  disposition  of  these 
papers,  having  literally  no  other  information  on  the 
point  than  they  themselves  furnish.  Needless  to  say 
they  would  not  be  published  now  if  I  had  any  kind  of 
reason  to  believe,  or  to  suspect,  that  my  friend  would 
have  resented  such  a  course. 

But  I  will  say  that,  in  the  writing,  I  do  not  think 
Freydon  had  considered  the  question  of  publication. 
I  do  not  think  that  in  these  last  exercises  of  his  pen  he 
wrote  consciously  for  the  printer  and  the  public.  As 
those  who  know  his  published  work  are  aware,  he  was 
much  given  to  literary  allusiveness  and  to  quotation. 
In  these  papers  such  characteristic  pages  did  occur,  it 
is  true,  but  in  practically  every  case  they  had  been 
scrawled  over  in  pencil,  and  have  been  studiously  omitted 
by  me  in  my  preparation  of  the  manuscript  for  the  press. 
Here  and  there  it  was  clear  that  entire  pages  had  been 
removed  and  apparently  destroyed  by  their  writer. 

Again,  in  this  record,  Freydon — always  in  his  writings 
for  the  press,  literary  and  journalistic,  meticulous  in  the 
matter  of  constructive  detail — clearly  gave  no  thought 
to  the  arrangement  of  chapters  or  other  divisions.  He 
wrote  of  his  life,  as  he  has  said,  to  enable  himself  to  see 
it  as  a  whole.  For  my  part  I  have  felt  a  natural  delicacy 
about  intruding  so  far  as  to  introduce  chapter  headings  or 
the  like.  It  was  easy  for  me  to  note  the  points  at  which 
the  writer  had  laid  aside  his  pen,  presumably  at  the  day's 
end,  for  there  a  portion  of  a  sheet  was  left  blank,  and 


EDITOR'S  NOTE  375 

sometimes  a  zig-zag  line  was  drawn.  At  these  points 
then,  where  the  writer  himself  paused,  I  have  allowed 
the  pause  to  appear.  And  this,  in  effect,  represents 
the  sum  of  my  small  contribution  to  the  volume ;  for  I 
have  altered  nothing,  added  nothing,  and  taken  nothing 
away,  beyond  those  previously  mentioned  passages 
(literary  rather  than  documentary)  which  the  author's 
own  pencil  had  marked  for  deletion  ;  the  removal,  where 
these  occurred,  of  references  to  myself ;  and  the  sub- 
stitution, where  that  seemed  desirable,  of  imaginary 
proper  names  for  the  names  of  actual  places  and  living 
people  as  written  by  my  friend. 

Two  other  points,  and  the  task  which  for  me  has 
certainly  been  a  labour  of  love,  is  done. 

Nicholas  Freydon  was  perfectly  correct  in  his  belief 
that  he  might  have  wooed  and  won  the  lady  who  is  referred 
to  in  these  pages  as  Mrs.  Oldcastle.  In  this,  as  in  other 
episodes  of  his  life  which  happen  to  be  known  to  me,  the 
motives  behind  his  self-abnegation  were  in  the  highest 
degree  creditable  to  him.  This  I  have  been  asked  to  say, 
and  I  am  glad  to  say  it. 

Among  Frcydon's  papers  was  one  which,  for  a  time, 
greatly  puzzled  me.  Once  I  had  learned  precisely  what 
this  paper  meant,  it  became  for  me  most  deeply  significant, 
knowing  as  I  did  that  it  must  have  been  lying  where  I 
found  it,  in  a  drawer  of  Freydon's  work-table,  while  he 
wrote,  immediately  before  his  last  illness,  the  final  sections 
of  this  work,  including  its  penultimate  chapter ;  includ- 
ing, therefore,  such  passages  as  these  : 

Over  and  above  all  this  I  deliberately  chose  my 
1  way  out,'  and  it  is  good.  I  am  assured  tfie  life  of  this 
my  fiermitage  is  one  better  suited  to  tlie  man  I  am  to-day 
than  any  other  life  I  could  hope  to  lead  elsewhere.  .  .  . 
And  if  I,  my  inner  self,  cannot  find  peace  here,  where 
peace  so  clearly  is,  xchat  should  it  profit  me  to  go  seeking 
it  where  peace  is  not  visible  at  all,  and  where  all  that 
is  visible  is  turmoil,  hurry,  and  fret.  .  .  .  And,  in  short, 


376  THE  RECORD  OF  NICHOLAS  FREYDON 

Je  suis,  je  reste  !  .  .  .  England !  Of  all  the  place 
names,  the  names  of  countries  that  the  world  has 
ever  known,  was  ever  one  so  simply  magic  as  this — 
England?  .  .  . 

This  document  was  a  certificate  entitling  Freydon  to 
a  passage  to  England  by  an  Orient  line  steamer.  Upon 
inquiry  at  the  offices  of  the  line  in  Sydney,  I  found  that, 
twenty-eight  days  before  his  death,  my  friend  had 
booked  and  paid  for  a  passage  to  London.  At  his  request 
no  berth  had  been  allotted,  and  no  date  fixed.  But,  by 
virtue  of  the  payment  then  made,  he  was  assured  of  a 
passage  home  when  he  should  choose  to  claim  it.  To 
my  mind  this  discovery  was  one  of  peculiar  interest, 
considered  in  the  light  of  the  concluding  pages  of  that 
record  of  Nicholas  Freydon's  thoughts  and  experiences 
which  is  presented  in  this  volume. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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